Nothing to Lose
by Ornamental Nonsense
Summary: She didn't want anything to do with Frank Fontaine or Andrew Ryan. She really didn't want to 'disappear', but then why was she pointing a gun at this man? Addicted to plasmids and conflicted, life in Rapture just kept getting better.
1. Chapter 1: It Started Long Ago

I own nothing except my OCs. Frank Fontaine, Andrew Ryan, Rapture, etc. etc. are not mine. Enjoy the story, and please read and review.

_____________

Chapter 1: It Started Long Ago

December, 1957

Somewhere in the dark, shoes crunched across the dirty floor, and the woman's heart leapt in response. Her terrified eyes widened as she crouched behind the metal cargo box and held her breath. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't supposed to happen. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that she made it out of this alive, but the chances of that were slim. Why was it so hard to pray here, in the darkened corridors of a maintenance room? Bitterly, she reopened and eyes and sighed. That's right, she thought. This is Rapture, and Andrew Ryan has outlawed God.

She could have cried, and she certainly wanted to, but the tears wouldn't come. Perhaps she had shed so many that none were left. It was a possibility, but why dwell on possibilities? Once she had only seen the opportunities laid out before her in life, and her parents had always said that anything was possible in this city, this monument to man's greatness, but it was all gone. She didn't understand what had happened to that greatness as she moved onto her hands and knees to peer around the box. She couldn't see anything, but she heard something moving out there.

"Miss Weathers!" a voice called. "The backup generator's going to kick on any moment now, and then where are you going to hide? I'll make this easier on you if you come out willingly." She recognized that voice. It was Sullivan. Shit. Her hand gripped the hem of her dress until her knuckles turned white. How had he found her? She was sure that she'd run fast enough when she'd exited the train car.

"Come on," Sullivan encouraged. "Just tell us what we want to know and you'll be alright. Fontaine doesn't give a shit about you and never has." She looked at her soiled dress, once white with red polka dots, now brown and dirty, and she frowned. Something wet ran down her cheek. A tear? She brushed it away and rubbed her wet fingers in wonder. She could still cry. She was still human, and she definitely still felt something that she was sure should have evaporated by now. How had she gotten here again? Oh, that's right.

It had started long ago…

*************

May, 1948

_I wish he would hurry_. The docks were hardly what would be termed an appealing place. The scent of fish permeated the air of the underwater facility, and without the advantages of a sea breeze or sunny sky, the dark hues of metal rooms and walkways were completely uninviting. Workers stood chatting and smoking near their workstations, aprons smeared with residue and blood from the latest catch, and booted feet scurrying to breakup the meeting whenever the boss approached. Today the conversation was accompanied by furtive glances and crude smiles toward the edge of the room. Their eyes were far too free with the rare sight before them, which happened to be Catherine Weathers.

_Oh, of all the places that father could leave me!_ She was standing beside a large window that looked out across the ocean's sandy and rocky bottom. She thought that the watery scene was beautiful in its own way as she leaned against the glass and softly smiled. Her mother had warned her that real ladies didn't lean, especially when people were watching, but these weren't exactly gentleman that were lingering over her long legs. Her best course would have been to ignore them, but she had never been to the docks, and so her eyes perpetually scanned the surroundings.

From her corner vantage point, she could see the men at their separate tables with their tools, and the conveyor belt shooting alongside of them where fish entered and exited after being gutted. It was an assembly line of muscled arms, flashing blades, and aquatic body parts—gruesome to someone who wasn't used to the sight, but riveting for its novelty. She doubted that mother would allow her to come here again, and so she tried to memorize every detail, even the wink that she received from one of the workers. There was a stairwell across the room from where she stood, and it slanted upward toward a window-lined office. That was where her father was—talking with Mr. Something-or-other about the shipments of fish that he was getting at the restaurant.

Catherine's eyes traveled to a fish outside of the window. It darted too and fro, making her lift a hand to the glass and playfully scaring it away. The window caught the reflection of a young woman in her later teens, 18 to be exact, with bright emerald eyes and wavy, blond hair that cascading over her shoulders. A slender neck flowed into shoulders and a curvy body fittingly attired in a black, taffeta coatdress. She had topped off the look with a pearl necklace that had been her parents' gift to her last Christmas, but now she was unsure if dressing so nicely had been a wise idea. She could still feel eyes on her back, and it made her self-consciously shift her weight.

"Hey!" someone called in a thick accent. Catherine vaguely recognized the man's voice as belonging to the Bronx, and she turned to see who was talking. "That's you I'm talking to, doll." The man stood several feet away, hands in the pockets of his second-hand suit as he strolled closer. He was tall with a cleanly shaved head, which was a look that Catherine didn't usually find attractive, but somehow this man pulled it off. Perhaps it was the way that his eyelids casually drooped over his dark, brown eyes with their probing intensity. She wasn't sure, but the manner in which he carried himself certainly caught her attention. His gait was so smooth and relaxed, like nothing could touch him, and his deep voice resonated with command.

"Are you talking to me, sir?" she politely asked. The man smiled, and she suddenly realized that he had a very thin, brown mustache tracing his upper lip.

"Well, I don't see anyone else 'round here who could possibly be referred to as 'doll'," the man stated. Catherine faintly blushed.

"Of course, sir," she quickly agreed. "How can I help you?"

"You're Miss Weathers, right?" he asked, and Catherine felt like his sharp eyes were dissecting her as she met his steady gaze. She sensed an intent purpose behind his words, but she couldn't imagine why he emitted such a vibe. The man, quite frankly, made her nervous, but maybe it was because she had never really encounter someone with a presence quite like his. He was smiling at her, but it didn't seem to reach his eyes.

"Yes, I'm Catherine Weathers," she told him.

"Frank Fontaine of Fontaine Fisheries," the man drawled in his thick voice. He extended a hand and Catherine placed her much smaller palm in his grasp.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," she automatically said, although she wasn't quite sure how she actually felt. He was at least wearing a suit and not a bloody apron.

"Likewise, Miss Weathers. It's not often we get a fresh face down here, if you haven't already guessed." She briefly glanced at the workers who she imagined were mentally undressing her. The very idea embarrassed her. "I hear your father's not satisfied with the quality of fish that old Blumings sending him."

"He's in a meeting with Mr. Bluming right now, sir," Catherine replied.

"Oh, is he now?" Fontaine contemplated. "Tell your old man that he should hop on over to Fontaine's Fisheries if he's interested in a real good bargain. I think I have exactly what the man's looking for."

"I'll let him know, sir," Catherine promised.

"I bet you will," Fontaine said with a slippery smile. "Thanks, doll." Catherine tossed her head to remove hair from her face and one of the workers let loose with a long whistle. She felt her face growing warm and turned her face away, trying to ignore the leer of the man who had made the gesture. "Hey, nosebleed!" Fontaine harshly yelled. Catherine's head snapped around and she found Fontaine facing the man. "Keep your eyes in your sockets and show the lady some respect." She gently smiled as Fontaine returned his attention to her.

"Thank you, sir. That was very kind of you."

"No problem," Fontaine shrugged. "Not everyone down here is a gentleman, if you know what I mean, and you can drop this whole 'sir' thing. You're making me feel like an old man, Miss Weathers." She couldn't help but smile, and decided that Frank Fontaine wasn't so bad. It had been a long time since she'd met anyone even remotely interesting or charming. "Perhaps I'll see you around." Fontaine turned to leave. "And don't forget to pass my message along."

"I won't. Goodbye, Mr. Fontaine." She watched him stroll away as coolly as he had arrived and wondered why she had never heard her father mention him before. She didn't think that Fontaine was the type of businessman to be forgotten, not with a presence like his. He looked so young to be running a business already, but after talking with him, Catherine decided that he probably had the leadership abilities to do so. Then again, maybe his father or a relative owned the fishery and he just worked there. She kept her eyes on the back of his suit. He was rather handsome, and he had defended her. She'd need to tell her father about the man's offer.

"Are you ready to go, Catherine?" a stern voice asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"Yes, father," she obediently answered. He was briskly walking toward her from the office with a sour expression twisting his face. He was a shorter man, with a thin beard and grey speckling his auburn hair, and he was currently dressed in his business finest. "I take it that the negotiating didn't go well," Catherine guessed. Considering how shrewd but compromising Henry Weathers was, the deal had to have been very untenable to put him in such a nasty mood.

"You have no idea," he growled.

"Don't be moody," Catherine joked with a smile, trying to cheer him. "Mother will worry herself into a tizzy, and that's before she finds you that you brought me here." Her father's face melted into a gentle smile as he patted her shoulder.

"There's no reason that she needs to find out that you were here," he stated. "Your mother can be quite unreasonable sometimes, but you were okay out here, right? I didn't want you to see me arguing with those buffoons in there." He stood protectively near her as he cast the workers a questioning glance, but they were all focused on their separate tasks.

"I'm fine, so stop worrying." They walked side-by-side as they exited the room and entered a long, glass walkway that led back toward the bathosphere. "You know, father, I would be far better at dealing with places like this if I were allowed to leave home more often, and _unescorted_," she stressed. Her parents kept a close watch over their only daughter, and sometimes it made Catherine want to scream. She knew that she was sheltered, and today only reminded her of how ill equipped she was to handle certain situations comfortably.

"Catherine, my dear, it's not my choice," Henry sighed. "You know that I slip you out when I can, but your mother is a hard woman to convince. I'm not even sure I should have brought you today…"

"Father!"

"No, the docks aren't a place for a young woman, but there are things that you need to learn…we'll see. Doesn't your mother always take you out with her?" Catherine rolled her eyes and tried not to cringe.

"Yes, but I always have to stay with her. There's so much more to Rapture than I've seen, and people my age are out there exploring it. Here I am, stuck accompanying mom to market so that I can carry the groceries." Henry chuckled. "It's not funny."

"And what do you want to see, Catherine?" he asked. "The world isn't safe, and there are many places that you don't need to go. We're just trying to make sure that you stay on the right track and with the right people—that's all. We care very deeply about you, but maybe I can take you to more places with me, if you want to that is."

"Thanks!" Catherine beamed, and her father shook his head at her enthusiasm.

"Were the docks really that interesting?" he joked. Catherine didn't answer as she ran a hand over the glass wall beside her. The city surrounding the hallway stood out against the dark, ocean backdrop in a beautiful display of neon lights, towering structures, and statues. There was an entire city out there and ways of life that she had no knowledge of. It scared her because she knew that there was danger. She had heard rumors of women being drug off and raped, but she couldn't imagine that happening to her, and the danger was somewhat attractive. Her experience today had made her uncomfortable, even nervous and fidgety. She'd never been in such a close vicinity to men like that before, and she hadn't known what to expect. The thought of what they had probably been thinking about her still made her want to blush, and that was why she wanted to go back. She had to get over this infernal ignorance of hers.

************

"Nice one, Frank," a man sarcastically commented. Fontaine was leaning against the wall, cigarette between his lips and eyes fixed on the door through which Weathers and his daughter were leaving.

"Excuse me?" he asked, one eyebrow arched.

"That whole 'show the lady some respect' bit," the man mocked. Fontaine cruelly smiled.

"Yeah, well look how happily she ate up that one," he commented. "You ought to take some lessons and learn how to impress the ladies. Now get back to work." The man grumbled but did as expected. Fontaine was still smirking as he took a puff of his cigarette and strode away. He'd be in his office, waiting to be contacted by Henry Weathers. If the man was smart, he'd realize that Frank Fontaine was his best bet in this whole fish business.

"Get out of town, Fontaine," a passerby sneered. The speaker was probably working for Bluming, and so Fontaine didn't bother responding. Sure, he was the new guy on the block, but it didn't matter. He hadn't gotten where he was in life by being stupid, and he'd be as successful here as on the surface. He just had to get his foot in the door, and that's where Weathers came in. He'd be his first big client, if everything went according to plan, and he was sure that the girl would mention him to her father.

The girl. Fontaine took an appreciative drag. Man, did she have a shapely rear, but her blush spoke volumes about her innocence. She was merely another naïve girl accompanying daddy on an outing—how sad for her. Fontaine wouldn't have left _his_ daughter on the docks alone, but hell if he'd ever bother getting himself settled. Catherine Weathers was quickly forgotten as he continued working.


	2. Chapter 2: What's a Life Worth?

Chapter 2: What's a Life Worth?

December, 1957

The feet dangled limply, and the toes just barely grazed the ground as the body swayed. Poor bastard. Well, this was a messy business, no doubt about it. Fontaine didn't particularly feel anything as he stared at the swaying corpse. He was preoccupied with thinking about the latest intelligence that he'd beaten out of one of Ryan's watchdogs. This whole power struggle was escalating daily, and soon, evidence or not, Ryan and Sullivan were going to come for his head. It was only a matter of time. Fontaine snorted derisively. Let them come. He was anxious to see their worst and use it against them in the public sector. Ryan was already beginning to exert his full force. Fontaine…hell, he hadn't even started yet. Wait until Ryan saw some of the plasmids that Fontaine Futuristics had cooked up. The thought made him darkly chuckle, which earned him a few odd stares from his companions.

"What shall we do with him?" one of them asked. Fontaine's eyes trailed over the grotesque display before him. A large metal hook had been jammed into the man's lower back and forced upward with such strength that the point exited the chest, right beneath the sternum. Bloody trails marred the clothing like red stripes, flowing downward and dripping from the shoes to form a pool on the ground. There was even blood on the hook's chain directly above the head where the victim had attempted to pull himself off of the equipment. For a moment, Fontaine stared into the slack, gaping mouth of the corpse and noticed how perfect the guy's teeth had been.

"Take him down and get rid of him," Fontaine ordered. "No sense hurting morale by leaving him there." That took care of that. He turned and continued on his way, the corpse already forgotten. What had been the man's name? Percy. That's right, the first one to seriously start smuggling with him. He couldn't say that he was sorry to see the hardliner and religious fanatic depart, but with a hook in the back? Life was a funny, disposable thing nowadays.

"Boss!" someone yelled. Fontaine's hand was already on his pistol as he spun and glared at the young man for startling him. That was a good way to die. "I'm sorry, sir, Mr. Fontaine, sir…"

"Spit it out, kid," Fontaine drawled.

"Catherine didn't arrive." There was no need for a last name or further elaboration. It was _his_ Catherine, the only Catherine around these dark parts. Had she been captured or had she runaway? He quickly dismissed the second possibility. He could imagine her smooth skin beneath his calloused hands, her soft breasts pressing against him, blond hair sweeping over his shoulders as she looked down at him. _Frank, is it okay if I stay here, with you_? No, she wouldn't desert him. She was directly under his thumb, so that meant that she'd finally made it onto Ryan's hit list, but it wasn't his fault. He'd kept her missions as discreet as possible.

Shit. Would he next see Catherine on a hook? She was a pretty face to waste on cruelty like that, but Fontaine had never really believed in or practiced exceptions, so he wouldn't expect Ryan to either. He didn't have time for this right now. Maybe he should cut his losses with Catherine and let her fend for herself. That would be the most productive option, and he'd wrap himself in Christmas paper and mail himself to Ryan as a present before he acted like a sap. Besides, Catherine was hyped up on plasmids and Adam, so Sullivan might find himself a pile of scorched earth before he did any major harm to her.

"Kid, don't hang around here and annoy me," he ordered and sent the messenger scurrying. He had to go look over the arms shipment. This whole business with Catherine didn't count for shit when compared to the upcoming meeting. _Frank, I heard something interesting today_. Fontaine brushed dirt off of his cuffs as he recalled how happy she always looked when he met her after work. She was perpetually pleased and eager to tell him any intelligence that she had gathered, whereas his other informants were either coldly distant or afraid that he'd have them or their families murdered.

Fontaine checked his gun to see if it was fully loaded. This went against his instincts, but Catherine had been very useful. Maybe she hadn't expired her welcome. _Fuck, Fontaine, are you getting soft_? He addressed a nearby man and watched him snap to attention and hurry to do as instructed. Fontaine smiled. No, he hadn't lost any of his edge, but some things were personal, and Sullivan, the bastard, was going out of his way to make it so. He'd show Sullivan that no one could walk onto Fontaine's turf and steal his belongings.

Fontaine had never imagined that Catherine would be of any major use. On their first meeting, he'd completely dismissed her. He hadn't even expected to see her again, but life had this way of throwing opportunities at him, and he was never one to decline.

**************

May, 1948

Frank Fontaine was standing at the edge of the room, watching his men work. The fish were moving at a satisfactory pace, and besides that, he had something else in the works. The man beside him spoke lowly into his ear, and Fontaine liked what he was hearing about setting up a smuggling ring.

"You wanna get a hold on the trade here?" the man was asking. "You gotta offer the people something that Ryan can't or won't give 'em. Catch my drift?" Fontaine snorted and narrowed his eyes at the man.

"Do I look like a damn mental moron to you?" he demanded. "I've been in this here business longer than you, Peirce, so don't go lecturing me. I catch the drift. Now tell me if this Percy guy's going to meet with me or not."

"He said he'll do it, but he's going to name the time and place."

"For now…" Fontaine mused. "Alright. Tell him that I'll be waiting for his call but not to keep me waiting." Peirce turned to leave. "And watch your mouth, Peirce. You work for me now. I'm the boss." The man glumly nodded before yanking his hat over his eyes and disappearing around the corner. Fontaine pulled a chain watch from his pocket and checked the time. Mr. Weathers would be arriving any time now, and Fontaine had examined the man's past enough to know that he was extremely punctual.

_And there he is_. Fontaine straightened his posture and suit as the new arrival began walking toward him. No, correction, arrivals. He arched an eyebrow. _What's the girl doing here?_ Catherine was accompanying her father—not that Fontaine minded. She was a nice piece of eye candy, but he couldn't imagine why she'd come for this meeting. Hell, it didn't matter, not this time. It wasn't one of _those_ meetings. An image of a man having his hand smashed by a hammer flitted across Fontaine's mind before he extended a hand along with a warm smile.

"Frank Fontaine," he greeted. "Step into my office, Mr. Weathers." The older man complied as Fontaine received Catherine's pleased smile. "Miss Weathers," he said. The three entered a small office and Fontaine sat behind his desk while Henry took the chair closest to him. Catherine was forgotten as she sat to the side and observed.

"Here's my offer, Mr. Weathers, or may I call you Henry?" he asked. Weathers nodded. "Alright then, Henry…" He laid out the terms of his agreement. It was simple and wouldn't make Fontaine extra money, but it was a better bargain than what Bluming was offering, and it was a first step.

"I'm not sure," Henry said. "What assurance do I have that you won't jack up prices once I exclusively trade with your company?" Fontaine smiled disarmingly, and it was a damn convincing expression, as he well knew.

"I know that I don't have a track record down here yet, but there's no binding agreement here. I tell you what; don't sign the deal today. Let's keep this informal for a few weeks, and you can see how it works." He couldn't help but notice how nonchalantly Catherine was sitting, legs crossed and body reclined. She hadn't looked at them the entire time but stared blankly at the wall instead. The poor kid probably wasn't listening to a word of this, even though the agreement would affect her future. He'd met plenty of women like her in his time, and they were all the same: pretty, but dumb and uninterested in a harsher world. That's the kind of girl churned out by the picturesque lives of people like the Weathers, but that just meant that there were more easily duped young ladies for the taking.

"I'll take your informal offer," Henry stated and then stood. "I have high hopes for this partnership, Mr. Fontaine. Impress me." _You have no idea, old man_.

"Oh, trust me; I'll have you stunned by the time this is over," Fontaine promised with a parting handshake. He walked Henry to the door and watched him exit into the corridor beyond. "And have a pleasant day, Miss Weathers." The woman who had been so silent paused in the doorway and shyly smiled.

"You're very smooth with words, Mr. Fontaine," she said. "My father usually does not leave a meeting with such a satisfied expression. The praise of mackerel was quite smart, although I don't know how you figured out that it's his favorite fish." Fontaine was momentarily caught off guard, but he quickly smoothed over his surprise. So she wasn't as oblivious as she looked.

"It was a hunch, actually," Fontaine confessed. "But nothing's gained without some risk. If I don't feel the heat, I know that I'm not aiming high enough." He pulled a cigarette from the inside of his jacket and grinned at her. "So you've got me pegged as a smooth talker, huh?"

"I know one when I hear one. Quick words are only way that I have any say over my life," Catherine replied with a smile, but it was definitely a forced one. From the strained undertone of her words, Fontaine was alerted to possible family issues and catalogued the information for later. She lowered her eyes and excused herself as her father called for her. _I'll be damned_, Fontaine thought. _The little girl can analyze while looking completely harmless._ She was smart underneath the frills, so perhaps there was some potential there. Having a close link to one of his clients usually turned out to be valuable.

"Hey, doll!" he called, and Catherine turned toward him. "Don't be a stranger." He could tell that she liked that by the way that she blushed and hurried to catch up with her father. "Women," he muttered under his breath. This was just too easy.


	3. Chapter 3: Acid Baths & Sweet Words

Fast updating, I know. This is what happens when I have a completely unscheduled day off of work. Lol

_____________

Chapter 3: Acid Baths & Sweet Words

July, 1953

Catherine was walking alone through the empty corridor with her purse clutched protectively in her hands. It was ten at night, and most people in this area of the city knew not to loiter after dark. She nearly laughed at herself. After dark? The expression held no meaning in a city dependent on artificial light. There was no sun, so there was no night, yet Rapture still ran on the clock from the surface world. _Click_. She quickened her pace, thinking that she had heard someone else's footsteps. Her parents would be worried sick about her, but the idea didn't concern her as much as it once would have.

She was rounding a corner when someone locked arms around her waist. She gasped and instinctively tried to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth. Panic set in as she writhed and madly thrashed.

"Hey, hey, Cat, it's just me," a low, seductive voice purred in her ears. Her wild movements immediately ceased and the hands slackened as Fontaine grinned ear to ear. She spun and slapped him across the face.

"Frank, you scared me!" Fontaine laughed in his deep manner as he rubbed his smarting cheek. His dark eyes flashed with amusement as he leaned against the wall.

"It seems that you've gotten a little bolder since we first met," he teased.

"You'd be amazed how many faces have met with this hand," she smiled. It was true. Working at a backstreet restaurant and bar had created a defensive reflex that saved her from many an inappropriate touch. Her skin had toughened, but her smile still retained that sweet, reserved quality that Fontaine liked to comment on.

"Were you disappointed when I didn't meet you after your shift?" Fontaine asked.

"No."

"Don't lie," he mocked. "You can't pull it off with the right finesse." He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. "How about you go home in the morning?" Catherine's face contorted from conflicted thoughts. She bit her bottom lip in concentration, and the habit made her look as if she were pouting, which Fontaine found humorous. Reading her was so easy.

"I don't know…" she muttered. "My parents will die of worry with all this news about more powerful plasmids. They're convinced that I'll be mugged by someone who can electrocute me with a flick of a finger." This was the first year that something more than primitive plasmids were for sale, and her parents didn't trust them. Catherine wasn't sure that she did either, but she was proud that Fontaine was pioneering a new field. His investments and business controlled a plasmid industry that was just now becoming popular after years of research and development.

"Plasmids are the future, kid," Fontaine told her. "Your parents are lagging behind the times. Soon everyone down here will be begging for them. Dr. Tenenbaum is ready to put the next line of products on the market. You interested in taking a look?"

"Okay," Catherine agreed. She had a hard time saying no when he looked at her like he was now. She'd visited his research facility several times since he'd founded it in 1950, but it had only been a small operation then. Another trip would be interesting, and she was looking for an excuse to spend time with her lover anyway. "But this is the last time," she warned. "My parents are going to put a mark on your head soon."

"Does that mean that you're going to make pancakes for breakfast?" Fontaine asked. They both knew that this would not be the last sleepover, not by a long shot. They walked together, and Catherine reveled in feeling her arm looped through his. Frank Fontaine. He was successful, charming, handsome, and kind—well, mostly kind. She'd seen him handle some employees rather roughly. Her parents naturally hated him, because they suspected that he was the reason that she sometimes didn't come home, but Catherine kept insisting that she was merely hanging out with friends.

"Do plasmids scare the little, pussyCat?" Fontaine asked her.

"A little," she confessed and swatted his hand for using such a nickname in public.

"Have you ever thought about trying one?" Catherine shook her head. "Perhaps you're feeling a little daring tonight…"

********

December, 1957

Catherine sighed and looked at the inside of her left elbow. She could feel Fontaine's hand gently holding hers as a greenish liquid was injected into her system. It had hurt more that she could describe, and she'd screamed in every pitch imaginable. That particular plasmid had played havoc with her senses, burning them like fire and sending her into an unconscious state due to the excruciating pain. When she'd woken up…

_"Catherine, you okay?" Fontaine asked. He was holding her, cradling her as she looked up at him, confused. "The first one always does that, but you'll be fine. Rest a few minutes before we get you to your feet." _

The first one? She had been injected with multiple plasmids since then, but Eve was the real kicker. She needed it to fuel her powers, even when she wasn't using them, for her Eve level naturally depleted with time. Fontaine had shown her how to use plasmids, and he also had a limitless supply of Eve. She craved it when she went without an injection for more than five days, and Fontaine was always there, always willing to give her a fix. Sometimes he gave her an extra one when he was overly pleased with her, but sometimes he withheld them when he thought that she was being too needy.

"Miss Weathers, you're starting to annoy me," Sullivan darkly intoned. "And you don't want to do that." Catherine felt several more tears slide down her cheeks. Her left hand was beginning to tingle, and the veins visible at her wrist turned from blue to a dark green. If Sullivan got any closer…She didn't want to do this. She didn't want to kill another person, but Fontaine wasn't here to help her this time. Sometimes she wondered if he genuinely gave a damn about her welfare, but of course he did. When he gave her Eve and they lay together in bed, his arms around her, mouth planting gentle kisses along her neck, she was convinced that she was something more to him. No one else had ever been permitted to spend the night with him in his own bed. Peirce had told her as much.

The lights overhead flickered and Catherine knew that she didn't have a choice anymore. There were several men in here, and she only needed to kill whoever stood between her and the door. Her hand momentarily burned and suddenly her skin peeled away at selective spots to reveal a slimy, green substance beneath. Yellow swirled among the green, and vapor escaped the wounds. Even though the fumes came from her own body, they irritated her nose when she received a strong whiff. The lights flickered once more and she braced herself. Suddenly the lighting system was back online, making her easily spotted among the gray crates.

"There she is!" one of the men yelled. He threateningly leveled his shotgun at Catherine, who remained crouched where she was. "Hands in the air, baby." Sullivan came to stand beside the man and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Ain't you a pretty sight," he teased. "Come along peacefully, Miss Weathers. Mr. Ryan has some business with you, and he might even protect you from Fontaine's wrath if you play nice." Catherine's eyes darted frantically toward the shotgun before she whipped her hand upward. A green liquid jettisoned from her palm, spraying across the man with the gun and his weapon.

"AHHHHH!" the man dropped the gun and clawed at his own face. The skin was deteriorating and leaving bloody, exposed flesh in its wake. His eyes were closed against the searing substance, but it wouldn't take long before his eyelids had been dissolved.

"Fuck!" Sullivan cursed. Even the shotgun was melting, and everyone was stunned into inaction except Catherine. She dashed for the exit and left a warning spray of acid behind her incase anyone tried to pursue her. "Don't wait around here!" Sullivan yelled at his men. "Go get her!" The injured man was now curled in a ball on the floor and whimpering. The pain had to be indescribable. "I'm sorry, Charlie," Sullivan apologized before firing a mercy round into the man's head.

Catherine only heard the blast of the pistol as she ran for her life. She'd already retracted her plasmid mutation and looked like a dirty, lost woman to anyone on the streets. People fled from her path, thinking her to be one of the deranged results of over splicing, and she couldn't blame them. Months earlier, entire sections of the city had been quarantined due to the large numbers of splicers, and people were terrified of the disappearances taking place, but Catherine's mind was fully intact. She wasn't sure what kept her sane in a world like this, but it didn't matter as she ran. Survival was the most important thing now.

She stumbled toward a trolley car and hastily boarded. She didn't care where it was going, but once she had distanced herself from Sullivan, she could concentrate on getting back to Fontaine. He would already know that something had gone wrong, and he'd probably expected it since he'd warned her not to go out for her mother's funeral. Catherine hung her head dejectedly as she rested her forehead against the window. Security hadn't even allowed her into Olympus Heights for the viewing. It had been an invitation-only event, and she hadn't received one.

The trolley car began speeding through the tunnels and Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. She had to get back to Fontaine. He'd protect her from Ryan's men. Perhaps she should have gone to his home, for that was close by in Olympus, but he wasn't there right now and Ryan's men probably monitored the place. She self-consciously noted the nervous stares of fellow passengers and moved as far away from them as possible. She wondered how many people here knew how connected she was to Fontaine, for any one of them could act as an informant against her. She turned away and held her left hand, ready to summon a plasmid if she were threatened. She tried to recall happier times…

***********

October, 1948

"Well look who it is," someone commented. Catherine nearly dropped the tray of empty mugs and glasses that she was balancing on her shoulder. She couldn't believe what she was seeing; Frank Fontaine was standing right beside her, that confident, smug smile tugging at his lips. She briskly noted that he was attired in a flattering, pinstriped suit, and that it elegantly streamlined his tall frame. She sheepishly smiled.

"Hello again, Mr. Fontaine," she greeted. "I didn't know that you come here." She set the tray down on a nearby table and gave him her undivided attention. The man basically demanded it whenever he was speaking to someone.

"And I didn't think that you'd be working here," he stated. "I'll take a cold beer when you're free." Catherine hurried to do as told and soon stood at his table. His crisp, expensive appearance clashed with the basic sitting room. He could certainly afford much better than this place.

"Your beer, sir," she said as she set it on the table.

"Don't start that again; we've had a conversation on the 'sir' thing before. Call me Frank, doll."

"Call me if you need anything, Frank," she said in parting, although she didn't really want to stop talking with him. So many of the patrons were crude, but Fontaine was different, and he was alluring in his own right.

"Hold your horses," Fontaine said as she tried to leave. "What are you doing down here? Last I checked, Olympus girls have no business in these parts." Catherine tried to fight the blush that was forming on her cheeks. She'd thought that the reflex had vanished after two months of working in a place like this, but this question required a more personal response, and toward a man whom she was attracted to. "Something got your tongue, kid?" Fontaine questioned with a smirk.

"No," Catherine breathed. "It's just that…well, you helped me with the decision." Frank's eyebrow shot upward. "You once told me that nothing is gained without risks, and you seem to be a man who goes after exactly what he wants. It got me thinking, and now I'm here."

"So what's the risk? Being manhandled by half-drunk idiots? You've got an interesting way of finding gains."

"No. It's not that. My parents don't know that I'm here. They think that I'm tutoring." Fontaine took a long draught of his beer and studied her from behind his half-lidded eyes. He seemed to be considering something.

"But why are you working here?" he pressed.

"Call it personal gratification." He smiled appreciatively and it made Catherine happy that she'd told him the truth about her decision. "I have to get back to work, but I hope you come in again. Goodnight, Frank." She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked away, and it sent a strange tingling sensation up her spine. When she turned back around, a beautiful, slender woman was at the booth with Fontaine, one of her hands stretching toward his. A wave of envy struck Catherine and she hurried to the back room to avoid the sight. It was stupid that she should be affected like this. She barely even knew the man, she reasoned, and he probably didn't have an interest in her.

Within another month, she was passing information along from her customers to Fontaine.


	4. Chapter 4: Lessons of Life

The type of story that this is listed as might change once or twice more. I'm not sure exactly what to classify it as…

____________

Chapter 4: Lessons of Life

December, 1957

Catherine shuffled out of the trolley car and detached herself from the crowd to favor the wall. Her feet had walked this path many times before, and now they automatically retraced their steps toward the end of the corridor. She could perfectly picture the large room ahead with its arching walls, lush grass, and ivy-covered arbors. It was the antechamber to the Tea Gardens, which she had often visited with her parents since coming to Rapture in 1947. She wondered if the gardens had retained their beauty through the increasing ugliness of this place.

The streets were no longer safe due to the occasional, crazed splicer. Ryan removed such people from the public as soon as they were discovered, but the dread of meeting one was always there. The wealthier communities like Olympus Heights had even shut their doors due to the unrest, and now a pass was needed to enter the community. It was difficult to remember a time before the troubles began, but the memories were there, in the quagmire of Catherine's mind. The Tea Gardens held particularly sweet reminisces, but dwelling on them tended to cause sadness, especially when she considered that there was no going back. Fontaine said that one day this would all be over, but she couldn't see the end. She hadn't since Ryan and Fontaine started clashing in '55. Then it had been about Fontaine's illegal business; now it was nearing an all-out power struggle as plasmids continued to shape the underwater world. Ryan did not like the popularity or dominance of Fontaine in the city.

_Security bots_, Catherine's mind shouted. She kept her head down as one of the flying robots swooped over her. Another soon joined it, and with the way that they were hovering and turning in circles, they were definitely searching for someone. Catherine warily eyed the miniature guns protruding from the machines and silently cursed Andrew Ryan. Since plasmids had become widely popular in '54, she'd had no peace, but whose fault was that? Fontaine was the one who started her on plasmids and sucked her into his operations. Ryan was merely reacting to the threat that Fontaine posed. Sometimes she sympathized with the man hunting her more than her own lover.

One of the security bots fixed its red lens on her, and Catherine tensed. Her pace quickened and she began shoving through the crowd. Within moments, an alarm sounded, and the public panicked and scattered accordingly. Their frantic movements helped Catherine escape as she forced her way around those in flight and looked for a place to hide. With everyone heading in one direction—toward the exit—perhaps she could slip away and shelter herself in the ladies bathroom. She knew exactly where the closest one was, but the bots would see her.

Catherine waited until the hum of the machines was directly above her before summoning a plasmid. Her left hand twitched and jerked as electricity pumped through the limb and sent blue currents sizzling between her fingertips. It required the utmost resolve to halt and let the crowd flow around her as she turned and lifted her hand. The lightning flew forward and her pupils reflected the bright, blue flashes. It was a direct hit. The bots began smoking and frantically beeping as they flew crookedly and smashed into one another. By the time reinforcements arrived, Catherine was stowed away from sight among porcelain sinks and blue stalls.

She stood before the mirror above a sink and held up her hand for inspection. The electricity still had her fingers contorted in stiff, angular positions. Electrobolt. She pulled the power back into her body and replaced it with green-tinted skin and open sores. Acidbath. The green faded into red, charred patches of skin and flickering flames. Incinerate. Then the back of her hand bloomed with purple spots that resembled bruises, and a shifting fog swirled beneath her palm. Insta-sleep. And the last. She winced in pain as her hand turned gray and tough while spikes grew out of her tender flesh, leaving rivulets of blood sliding down her arm. Iron Hand.

She held her mutated hand up in the light and examined the discolored skin. This is what she had become, and there was no removing the plasmids from her system. The power was banished as she collapsed forward, hands braced against the edges of the sink as she wept. She had never wanted the plasmids, but Fontaine had told her that it was no big deal. Then, when he offered her the second one, Incinerate, it had been about convenience. _Come on, doll. Sure, Acidbath is out there, but Inferno is a daily wonder. I won't even need to carry a lighter anymore with you around_. And she'd been charmed into accepting the offer.

They hadn't been negative, at first. In fact, he'd been right, for she enjoyed being able to spark fires at the drop of a dime, and they laughed whenever he held out a cigarette for her to light. It had been fun and games, but the plasmids kept coming, and some of them had no appreciable use. She'd been talked into Iron Hand because Fontaine said that she needed some type of defense for when she was walking home from work. It had made sense at the time, but somewhere along the line, the cravings started.

Catherine slammed a fist against the sink and reeled away from the mirror. Her eyes were rimmed in black, and her mascara was running. She looked and felt dreadful as she crumbled to the floor. They had been fools! Plasmids had started off small, basic, and expensive—a luxury for daring elites, but research had quickly advanced since Fontaine Futuristics first began development in 1950. Her taste of genetic modifications had only been the beginning, for, once those horrid girls with their monstrous bodyguards were created, everything changed. Adam became more abundant thanks to the little freaks, and so plasmids advanced and basic varieties flooded the market.

"Affordable plasmids for every man, woman, and child," Catherine quietly recited from an ad. If she recalled correctly, plasmid popularity picked up in '54. By '55, they permeated society, but there were rumors of negative side effects. Catherine grimly smiled through her tears. Oh were there ever side effects. By '56, there was no denying it, but sales continued to increase anyway. Now look at this place! Every day it seemed that someone was killed or reported missing. Plasmids, Ryan, Fontaine, rumors—Catherine wanted to shut herself in a room and hide from the dire straights in which she found herself. She decided that her old room would have done nicely.

Her family had bought a modest place in Olympus Heights when they moved here, and her old bedroom overlooked the cityscape that she had once found so enchanting. Their home may have been small and shoved-aside when compared to the homes of wealthier people, but it hadn't bothered anyone except mom, who tended to get a little envious. That bedroom, with the large mahogany bed and dresser, tiled floor, and vanity had been more than enough for Catherine, and it was the view that really counted. She would once sit by the window and fondly think of Fontaine and how she was sneaking out that night to see him. Now, in her most desperate moments, she damned him to hell for what he'd done to her life.

The plasmids had never been for her own good, even if he never admitted it. Sure, they had recently saved her ass, but looking back, she could make connections that she'd been blinded to before. The powerful upgrades that turned a protective power into a terrifying force had been pushed on her beginning in '55, after a crazed splicer had nearly ripped off Fontaine's head and when Ryan began cracking down on his business. From then on, Catherine body was pumped with destructive powers, and she'd been given permission to accompany Fontaine on important business. She'd thought it sweet that she was continually at his side, but not anymore.

The ever-present intercom system crackled, but Catherine barely noticed. It was probably some stupid add about athletic men.

"We finally speak, Miss Catherine Weathers," a precise, formal voice spoke, and Catherine nearly jumped out her skin in fright at the unexpected address. The intercom system was specifically talking to her, and that meant that it could only be one person: Andrew Ryan. "How easily your kind cower, but what kind of protection is an empty bathroom?" The mocking edge to the voice made Catherine stand and defiantly cross her arms.

"What do you want, Ryan?" she tried to yell, but her voice came out much more meekly than she intended. Did she really want to hear what the bastard had to say? "Forget it!" And she marched for the bathroom exit.

"Stop! You take one step out of this room, and I promise that the security bots will riddle you with holes. You _will_ listen to what I have to say." The sharp directive left no room for argument, and so Catherine reluctantly stayed and leaned against a sink. She didn't want to listen to this man, but she didn't have any options. As Ryan's biting and articulate speech continued to flow out of the intercom system, she felt herself slipping further and further away.

***********

March 1949,

_He'll meet you at seven, tomorrow, outside of The Octopus Tangle_. Catherine slid the napkin toward a seated man as she passed him. What Fontaine was meeting with the gentleman for was none of her business, but she couldn't help but wonder why these exchanges had to be so secretive. She knew that it might to be illegal, but somehow she never considered herself a criminal. She was just the waitress who transferred the occasional message and got a thrill out of the theoretical danger that doing so might involve. Fontaine would meet with her in a few days with more instructions, and she'd happily comply.

Slowly the establishment emptied, and she found herself scrubbing the bar counter and bidding most of her coworkers a goodnight. She didn't look up as the bell above the door jingled.

"We're closed," she announced.

"That breaks the heart," a familiar voice drawled. "Are you really going to turn away a thirsty man?" Catherine straightened and rested a hand on her hip.

"Frank!" she greeted. "How do you always sneak up on me?"

"I'm a talented man." She wondered how she looked after a long shift, for she could tell that her blond hair was coming out of its bun and that stray tendrils were loosely hanging about her face. In Fontaine's opinion, she looked quite fetching with her unkempt appearance, but it embarrassed her. His dark eyes glittered as he stepped closer and took a seat on a barstool.

"So how about a drink?" he asked. Catherine tossed her cleaning rag into a warm bucket of water and playfully sighed.

"I suppose that one couldn't do any harm," she allowed and fetched him a beer. He lifted the bottle and smirked.

"You're not joining me?" he asked.

"I'm working, and I don't drink."

"I see how it is. You're one of those teetotalers." She loved the way that his thin mustache moved exactly with his lips.

"I happen to like being in control of myself," she retorted.

"Don't twist yourself into a knot, doll. Do yourself a favor and unwind a little." He reached out and gently curled his finger around one of her loose, blond wisps. "I guarantee that you'll like it." He loved the way that she shifted nervously under his touch and how her eyes lit up in excitement. This one was an easy win, but she liked walking the straight line a little too much. If she knew what he was involved in, she'd probably politely excuse herself from doing the favors that he asked of her. That's how women like her were. They were scared to step off of the sidewalk lest they land in a puddle.

"I'm ready to go!" a female voice interrupted, and Fontaine quickly released Catherine's hair. One of the other waitresses had emerged from the kitchen and was fixing her brown hair. She was the most beautiful woman working here, or so Catherine thought, and she had traded her work outfit for a slinky, black dress.

"Ouch. Someone looks stunning," Fontaine said as he stood and took her arm. "I'll see you around, Catherine," he added without a brief, backward glance. The two left, leaving Catherine to grumpily return to scrubbing the counter.

"I'll take care of that, honey," someone offered. Catherine graciously passed off the rag to a woman in her forties who was the veteran waitress of this place.

"Thanks, Miss Rose."

"Don't mention it, and don't look so glum. If you're smart, you'll forget about Frank Fontaine. I've been watching men like that my entire life, and the type of women that they chase…I'm sorry to say that you don't have what he's looking for." Catherine went rigid.

"Maybe…" she said, biting her lower lip. "Miss Rose?"

"Yes?"

"What exactly would I have to do to get the attention of a man like Frank?"

"I was waiting for you to ask. Come on over here, hun. Welcome to Miss Rose's school of seduction."


	5. Chapter 5: Getting Involved

Chapter 5: Getting Involved

April, 1949

Fontaine was waiting for Julia to finish getting ready. They were going to Boccaccio's, a fine diner, and then they'd navigate over to her place for some nighttime fun. She was a decent ride and easy on the eyes, which was exactly what he was in the mood for, and he'd never need to worry about pressure from this toy. He was fooling around with her, and they hadn't been together long enough for her to start clinging. Damn, how he hated that. Women had this annoying habit of thinking that just because he saw them for a few months that he was in the relationship for the long haul. It made him want to laugh. What he had going on here had nothing to do with relationships. Taking off his pants only meant exactly what the physical action said.

He figured that he had some time left before this chick stretched her place thin. Sure, he'd broken his share of hearts, but some women had to learn things the hard way. Some of them even got freaking hysterical when he dropped them back to reality, and his only response was to light another cigarette and get back to business as usual.

Speaking of work, where was Catherine? This was her shift, or it better be since he'd asked her to deliver another message. She was almost always cleaning the place up after the night had wound down, and without her here to keep him preoccupied, he started to get impatient with Julia. How much fucking time did she need to put on a dress? Maybe taking her to an expensive place wasn't smart. She might start to get ideas, and then she'd want to sit down and have serious conversations with him. He highly doubted that he'd enjoy what she wanted to talk about.

"Hi, Frank," Catherine greeted as she entered the room. "Julia's almost ready to go." Fontaine did a double take. Where was the simple skirt and blouse? Catherine was wearing a shimmering, green cocktail dress with a very low back. The color amplified the emerald of her eyes as she sauntered forward in her high heels. Sauntering? Fontaine leeringly examined her slender frame and the sassy walk. She looked gorgeous. Hell, she was good enough to eat. And the way that her wavy hair was swept to one side, obscuring part of her face as her red lips parted into a smile, left him wanting to see if her panties also matched the classy look.

"I'm floored," he stated, carefully keeping his expression cool. "Someone's a lucky man tonight." This was so incredibly out of character for her. She never went out after work. She should be taking a straight course back to mommy and daddy, but then again, she'd already surprised him once by working here.

"Thank you," Catherine beamed. "If you'll excuse me, someone's waiting for me." She wasn't even going to pause and speak with him? Fontaine wondered for whom she'd unleashed the siren. As if on cue, another man entered the bar.

"Peirce?" Fontaine asked, shocked.

"Boss," the man replied, tipping his hat. The man was several years older than him and dotted with scars. One ran from the middle of his forehead to his chin, but he was still mildly handsome in his suit as he wrapped an arm around Catherine. She responded by seductively running a hand up his arm.

"Goodnight, Frank," she said with a suggested trailing of her eyes over his face. And then she and Peirce were gone. Fontaine was left rooted in the spot. Where had little Miss Innocent gone? Hot damn.

**************

It had worked. Catherine could barely contain herself as she pulled on her heels and checked her hair one last time. Fontaine had given her increasing attention after her stunt with Peirce, like meeting her more often after work and ignoring Julia. She might have earned her coworker's wrath, and she felt guilty for dropping Peirce so quickly, but nothing was dampening her mood tonight. Just yesterday, Fontaine had asked her if she wanted to spend an evening together, and he had even let her choose where they were going. Naturally, she'd chosen the Tea Gardens. She hadn't been there lately, and Miss Rose said that it was romantic at night.

She stood at the station and waited for Fontaine to arrive while she hummed to herself. She'd opted for a pink dress, fitted on the top, flared and ruffled at the bottom. It was pretty enough, but simple. Miss Rose had stressed that if she dressed provocatively on the first date, she'd seem too easy, and that instead she should keep a man like Fontaine guessing. That, apparently, was where Julia had fallen short; she'd given in with the slightest of pushes, and then she'd lost Fontaine's interest because she had nothing going for but boobs. Catherine gladly took the advice to be cautious, for she'd never really been touched by anyone, and the idea made her uneasy.

She had always been taught that certain things were suppose to wait until marriage, and she wasn't sure how she felt about the matter in any other light. She had blushed when Rose gave her details. Of course she knew about the physical side of dating, but she didn't have experience, and she certainly hadn't known _all_ of that. She had always thought that there was only one way to have sex. Even the idea of…_don't blush; don't blush_. Rose had meant well, but Catherine wasn't even prepared to use the extent of what she'd been taught over the last two weeks.

"Ready to go, kid?" Fontaine asked as he stepped up beside her. "You look swell."

"Thanks. What's in the bag?"

"Oh, this?" He raised a paper bag and winked at her. "Nothing to worry yourself over. Let's move our feet." He wrapped an arm around her as they took a short ride to Arcadia and paid for their tickets. Inside, the gardens were splendid, and Catherine loved the feel of the grass against her feet, but not as much as the feel of Fontaine's arms. They strolled along stone walkways and entered a room with a stream cutting through the middle. Fontaine steered her toward a corner bench that was mostly obscured by a large, flowering bush. Neither of them took much note of the single man that passed by them soon after, his eyes darting toward them imperceptivity.

"Ryan didn't do a half bad job with this place," Fontaine commented.

"It's lovely," Catherine stated. "But he missed the mark."

"Really?" Fontaine asked, intrigued that she'd take a negative turn with his comment.

"You see, the lights are dimmed so that it feels like night, but there's no sound. It'd be better if there were crickets." Fontaine opened the bag that he was holding and removed a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"You're sure you don't want any?" he teased as he held out a glass to her.

"That's a very good brand," Catherine smugly commented as she accepted the glass and took a sip while elegantly crossing her legs. Fontaine grinned.

"Well look whose broadened her horizons. What other surprises do you have in store for me tonight, huh? I can think of a few that I'd like." He used his free hand to slide her across the bench and into his thigh. Catherine coyly smiled and took another sip of her drink, the taste of which suited her due to her education. The warmth was spreading across her body, or was that soothing sensation simply because Fontaine was looping his arm around her?

"If you keep this up," Fontaine said, "I'm going to move you out of that bar and to a nicer place where you might pick up more interesting news to share." Catherine was flattered, but concern flitted across her face.

"Frank, what kind of work are you involved in?"

"Fish, doll, pure and simple. But business talk doesn't mix well with the tea garden." He was surprised that she'd mentioned the topic instead of going of onto some romantic tangent that would make him roll his eyes.

"There's something else," Catherine stated, calling him on his lie.

"Oh really?" He challenged her with a smile.

"You smuggle." Fontaine laughed and poured himself more wine.

"Damn. I _am_ going to need to get you out of that bar. A talent like you can't be wasted. Tell me, beautiful, what makes you think that I'm a smuggler?"

"I have ears, and people talk." She moved her glass for him to refill. "Plus my father's friends leave messages with me." _That will be useful_, Fontaine thought. "And one rumor has it that you're moving into Olympus Heights." He didn't respond but seemed to be focused on his wine. "Frank," Catherine began, face serious, "what exactly do you smuggle?"

"Catherine, you're a nice girl, so let me lay something out straight for you," he stated, and she caught the glint of something stern behind his eyes. The easy tone held a dark edge that both enchanted and scared her. "There's the surface world, and then there's the underworld, and once you cross the line, there's no erasing it. You don't want to go there, kid. This makeup you've put on to get yourself out here," and he gave her face a gentle stroke. "It makes you look the part, but it doesn't mean you understand the game."

"I understand more than you give me credit for," Catherine calmly retorted, but her voice was soft. "I have my shortcomings, but I recognize them." She held up her glass to him and took a long swallow. Fontaine smirked and arched an eyebrow.

"You want to rattle the die, kid?" Now she looked uneasy.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, how full's your hand? You really want to try laying a card?"

"No," she said, looking embarrassed. Now she just felt stupid for having acted like she knew what she was doing. She hadn't lied when she said that she knew her shortcomings, and that meant knowing that whatever Fontaine, she didn't even begin to know its depth or dangers. Part of her was naïve enough to think that it wouldn't be so bad, and the other part reprimanded at her for opening her big mouth. "I was only curious," she reasoned aloud.

"Curiosity kills, doll." Her head snapped towards him. What? But he looked so relaxed and pleasant. It was her first warning of what kind of man he was, but he smoothed over it so quickly that she questioned what she had heard. He was pulling her closer. "But why the long face? This is an evening for pleasure, not debate. That pretty mouth of yours could be put to much better use." His lips were on hers in an instant, and Catherine willingly responded. What had Rose suggested? Right. She kissed back but let him control the movements while she ran a hand up his thigh. She could feel him smirking as they kissed. She couldn't help but smile back, pleased with the reaction that she was getting.

She closed her eyes and leaned against his chest, which he encouraged by pulling her forward. One of his hands began traveling down her back, sliding over her hips and further down. Uneasiness rose in Catherine's throat at such an intimate touch, and she opened her eyes. That's when she saw him.

A man wearing trousers and a white shirt was approaching Fontaine's back with a metal pipe in his hands. He tapped the metal weapon against his palm, and it only took one look at his cold, determined eyes to know that he was serious about doing damage.

"Frank!" she yelled in warning. His hand flashed toward the inside of his jacket, where a pistol was stowed, but the other man was faster. The pipe hit Fontaine on the shoulder, near his neck, as he twisted and sent him tumbling from the bench.

"This is what you get, you bastard!" the attacker yelled. "This is what happens when you blackmail Will Baker!" Fontaine rolled onto his back in time to see the pipe swiping downward toward his face, but the blow never came. Instead, a shower of broken glass fell across his chest. Catherine had taken the near-empty wine bottle and smashed the attacker over the head. Dazed, the man blindly swiped at her, so Catherine proceeded to throw the wine glasses at him.

"Bitch!" the man yelled as one of them glanced off of his face. He put his full force into the next swing, and the pipe was about to find its mark by colliding with Catherine's neck. She jerked backward with frightened eyes and began falling. She only heard the gunshot and the following growl of pain. She hit the ground hard and then sat up to see Baker on the ground, gripping his leg. She scooted back against the leg of the bench and watched in stunned silence as Fontaine stood with an ugly scowl on his face. He disdainfully flapped his shirt to remove the glass shards and spat on the bleeding man below him.

"I got to hand it to you, Will," he sneered. "You caught me with my pants down." He aimed the gun at the man's left kneecap and fired, shattering the bone. "But no one knocks me down that easily." Another shot shattered the other kneecap. "Next time, bring something better than a pipe." He leaned down and grabbed the man by the hair and pulled his face close to his. "Because if you're stupid enough to come after me, you better make sure the job's done right the first time. Revenge is a bitch." He straightened with the pipe in his hand, and considered beating the man to death, but then his eyes caught Catherine's huddled form. This was going to screw his changes of a swinging evening. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Baker." A final gunshot rang out and the body went limp.

"Someone's been shot!" a voice screamed among the bushes.

"You think?" Fontaine dryly commented as he held out a hand to Catherine. "Come on, doll. Time to scatter or we're in trouble." Catherine's small hand landed in his and she found herself pulled along at Fontaine's pace as they used plants to screen themselves from the arriving police forces. Soon they were out of Arcadia and on a mostly deserted trolley. Fontaine was sitting and discreetly checking his ammo.

"Frank?" Catherine said.

"Yeah, what?"

"You're bleeding." One of her hands came up to tenderly touch the side of his neck, where a jagged edge on the pipe had sliced him. Fontaine shrugged. "I wish I had a band aid," Catherine apologized while nibbling her bottom lip. Fontaine laughed.

"A band aid for Frank Fontaine? You're funny, kid—sweet—and you're spoiling me." Catherine didn't understand and her expression told him so. "Forget about it. Let's get you home." His eye lingered on hers and Catherine smiled in her normal, open manner, the seductress act having melted with stress. _Damn_, Fontaine thought, _how does a guy like me get a sweet, innocent thing saving his neck? She's a regular Florence Nightingale. Well, nurse, I'm ready for treatment_, and the tenderness with which she tried to help him stand felt unfamiliar but nice.

He'd not kept company like this for a long time. His relationships with women tended to be transactions: quick and for benefits. He didn't like attachments and complications, but he'd indulge himself and let Nurse Weathers massage his shoulders a little longer. Hey, there was nothing wrong with keeping a medic nearby. Too bad she probably wouldn't be on call throughout the night.


	6. Chapter 6: Business and Pleasure

Chapter 6: Business and Pleasure

December 1957

"Sullivan tells me that you're Fontaine's woman," Ryan's voice scoffed. "But you weren't always this way, were you Miss Weathers?" Catherine held her arms more tightly about her body as she lowered her eyes. "Even someone who's fallen as low as yourself can't ignore the reality staring him in the eyes."

"You'd know something about falling, wouldn't you, Ryan?" Catherine sharply replied. "You're killing as many people as Frank."

"I kill criminals, Miss Weathers—parasites who are eating this city, my dream, from the inside out, and what do you know about killing?" She flinched. "Ah, that's right. Shall I read the list of names for you? They were men with families, wives, kids, jobs, and you took that from them. A child gets her hands on power and wants to play god without any guidelines."

"I didn't mean to kill any of them," Catherine sighed. "It was self-defense."

"So you claim, and as it happens, I find myself inclined to agree with you." She shot the intercom a dirty expression. "Fontaine put the gun in your hand and had you aim while he pulled the trigger. He used you then, like he's using you now, but there's a way out, if the plasmids haven't destroyed your willpower that is."

"I don't trust you, Ryan," Catherine scoffed. "And how can you mock my willpower when you use pheromones to control the crazed splicers? Frank told me all about that, and he saved me by modifying my plasmids. I'm not crazy, Ryan, and if I was as weak as you seem to think, I'd already be dead."

"So says the woman tethered to life by lies," Ryan sneered. "Your faith in Fontaine can't possibly be as strong as you profess, and if it is, then you're a greater fool than I first believed." Catherine's eyes grew distant.

"You have no right…"

"No right? _You_ had no right to take the work of _my_ hands and the opportunities that _I_ gave you and offer it up to a common swine like Fontaine!" Ryan's voice boomed with anger, filling the room with tension. "Forgive me, Miss Weathers," he stiffly apologized. "I forget that you are but a victim in this game." Catherine bristled as surely as distant sadness obscured her sight. "You want out of this. I can see it, and you can be free if you'd only listen. Your body can be purged of the plasmids and the Eve dependency."

"How?" Catherine's soft voice begged.

"Kill Fontaine." Her heart dropped. "Kill him, and his hold over you will broken. Then I'll see you restored to your former self." _But that won't stop this madness_, Catherine bitterly thought. _I'll still be suspended in this darkness; only this time without arms to hold me, but if this addiction were gone…life would be so much better. _

"And if I refuse?" she asked.

"Then you better hope that Fontaine protects you better than he did today." Catherine found the courage in herself to smile humorlessly as she stood and glanced at herself in the mirror. Both of these men were tyrants, but one of them had her heart. She remembered how handsome Fontaine had looked the morning after her first sexual experience. He'd sat in bed, leaning against the headboard and stroking her hair while he read the paper. Then she'd surprised him with breakfast in bed, which had made him laugh. She could still hear him asking her to pass him a cigarette, but he had also abused her with plasmids and orders. Maybe Ryan had a point. No, she knew that he had a point, but even if he was right, she felt like a nail was being driven into her chest.

"Consider my offer, Miss Weathers," Ryan warned her. "If I don't receive an answer within several days, my men have their orders to eliminate you. Don't neglect my gift." Gift? Catherine was about to ask what he meant when she heard the intercom click, signaling Ryan's departure. She stepped out of the bathroom and found a small, hand-held radio sitting on the floor. Part of her wanted to kick it and flip Ryan the finger, but her hand gingerly lifted the device and stashed it in her dress. As much as she disliked the man, he had made a very compelling argument, and she'd give almost anything to be rid of her need for Eve.

*****************

February 1954

Catherine had been reluctant to use her plasmids when Fontaine first gave her one, but she had since grown more confident and comfortable. The first one had been hers in July '53, and by November, she was using plasmids in everyday activities. She used Acidbath to dissolve fungus in the bathtub, and Incinerate had become a convenient way to destroy the scribbled messages that people sometimes passed her. Of course, she was careful to keep her abilities hidden around her parents, but she could tell that they suspected her of using them. They viewed plasmids as a type of drug, like cocaine, and they wanted nothing to do with them. Catherine mostly escaped their probing eyes by spending her time elsewhere. She was at Fontaine's home four out of seven nights, and he'd even bought her a nightgown to keep at his place.

Catherine couldn't believe how resistant her parents were to change. Plasmids were revolutionizing the world, and they were incredibly handy. She was currently strolling through Olympus Heights with a bag of groceries that Fontaine had asked her to buy, and she happily greeted the people around her. She would defend Fontaine's work and marketing of plasmids to any one of these individuals, but she'd be lying if she said that she didn't have her inward doubts. Every new plasmid scrambled her genetics a little more, and she wasn't entirely sure that the long-term results would be pleasant. Each time Fontaine suggested a new one, she politely refused. Somehow he'd talked her into Incinerate, but she drew the line there. Two plasmids were enough.

And there was also the issue with Eve.

Eve hadn't mattered at first. It was only a necessary fuel for the plasmids. You took it when you needed to recharge, but lately, Catherine had been feeling different. Maybe this had been developing for some time and she hadn't noticed, but she could feel it deep inside of her. There was a nagging feeling tugging at her mind, an ache in her body. At first, she hadn't known what it was, but now she recognized it as her signal to refuel. It was strange that she hadn't felt this way before.

Suddenly a pang of desire jolted her system so strongly that her walking hitched. It had never been this strong before. She tried to focus on the person who she'd paused to talk to, but her mind was elsewhere. This man's eyes were blue, like Eve. Her mouth kept moving; answering his words perfectly in the conversation, yet the infernal clenching of her nerves wouldn't stop. It was like someone was roughly jabbing her in the side as she tried to go about her life. Usually she could just ignore it until Eve was close at hand, but this was more insistent. She had to get Eve.

*************

Fontaine sat in his private study, smoking a fresh pack of cigarettes. These were top of the line, unlike those cheap imitations made down here. He always made sure that his favorite brand was smuggled in with the latest batch of Bibles and weapons. God, war, and nicotine. He grinned. This job was fantastic, and the world down here was ripe for the taking. This con was going so far, so quickly that soon he'd own this place. The sea slug that Tenenbaum had alerted him to had quickly made him one of the wealthiest men in Rapture.

A light flashed on his desk and told him that the front door had been opened. He didn't need to check the person's identity as he listened to footsteps moving toward the kitchen. Catherine was back. Hopefully she would bake some rolls. She made the best damn rolls, and he had missed lunch due to work.

"Hey, Cat!" he called. She entered his study as he lounged in his leather chair with one arm flopped over the back. He immediately knew that something was wrong by the way that her eyes darted too and fro, as if extremely distracted. "What's wrong?" he asked offhandedly. Why did there need to be a problem right now? All he wanted were some goddamned rolls, but if something had happened, he believed in rectifying problems as fast as possible.

"I…I think I have a problem, Frank," Catherine said with an embarrassed tone.

"Yeah, like what?"

"I'm low on Eve, and it's all I can think about. It's like I can't function properly without it. I…" She bit her lip. "Do you have any?"

"I'm in the middle of something," Fontaine snorted. "Can't it wait?" Tenenbaum had warned him about this. Plasmids had seemed splendid enough, but research indicated that complications might arise. Shit. He hadn't known that it'd be anything like this—no one had. It was only after plasmids were on the market that the full effects became known, and he was keeping that knowledge carefully shielded from public eyes. His company had begun researching the negative side effects, and he'd only recently been acquainted with the findings. Marketing wise, it was brilliant because it ensured repeat customers, but he hadn't seen any signs of abnormalities in Catherine. He'd thought that she'd be fine—not that it mattered. Everything worked to his advantage with some fine-tuning.

"Frank…" Catherine said.

"Relax," he assured as he relented and pulled a syringe of Eve out of his desk. He carefully held her arm and injected the blue substance. Instant relief flooded Catherine's eyes as her tension eased. "There you go," Fontaine muttered around his cigarette. He tossed the syringe aside and leaned against his desk while blowing smoke skyward. There was a sharp crackle and then the fireplace in front of him was filled with flames. He enjoyed the feeling of the heat on his face as Catherine walked up beside him.

"I'm worried," she said. "What if these cravings get uncontrollable?"

"I own Eve, doll. You've got an endless supply." But he didn't give her free access, and he liked the leverage that it gave him over her. It granted him a command of her that might be useful in the future.

"Why don't you use plasmids?" Catherine asked.

"Are you saying that I need improvement?" he joked. She smiled and tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"Not Frank Fontaine." He took a puff of his cigarette and began walking toward the corner of his room. "Frank, I saw another ghost today…It was a little boy, and he was running from one of those big daddies." Fontaine wondered if Tenenbaum knew about that one. He'd mention it to her, for he had to know if Catherine was going to lose it. He'd seen what over splicing could do to people, and it was another reason that he kept her on a limited supply. He played with the record player at the room's corner and soon 'Mack the Knife' was filling the air. This had to be his favorite song.

"Come here, doll," he said as he took Catherine into his arms. One of his hands stayed on her waist while the other lifted her right arm in a classic, ballroom dance position. "Dance with me." Catherine began laughing as he twirled her in circles and swayed with her. Fontaine didn't know why he had chosen to dance with her. He didn't even know exactly why he'd kept Catherine so long. She offered comforting familiarity without overstepping her bounds. Maybe that was it, and he couldn't say that she didn't have her moments. He was enjoying this, and she had already forgotten about her Eve problems and his withholding it from her. Sometimes it was worthwhile to take life one day at a time, especially when the game might end at any time.


	7. Chapter 7: Ain't that Messed Up?

Despite a complete lack of any response to show interest, I'd like to inform those of you who are or might be enjoying this story that it will be finished. Don't think that a lack of reviews will deter me from completing this.

_________________

Chapter 7: Ain't that Messed Up?

December 1957

Fontaine had no fear of the security robots as he boldly walked through the glass walkway connecting Oceanus, the area of the city reserved for academic study and schooling, to Arcadia. Oceanus had fallen under his influence years ago due to his ability to supply them with banned books, including many religious texts, and so the provost had done him a favor by keeping bots friendly to his cause. As for Arcadia, Dr. Langford was currently allied with Ryan, but he did not fear her. She cared about trees and flowers, not reporting him, and the goons that Ryan would have stationed in the area wouldn't cause a stir unless provoked.

Four men were with him, all discreetly armed and walking at his side as the metal door ahead slid open. Informants had radioed in when Catherine was spotted in Arcadia, and with the maintenance passages open to his disposal, Fontaine had quickly arrived on the scene. He smirked as his hand fingered the pistol tucked into his belt. There was the Rapture that everyone saw, and then there were the inner workings. The city was lined with hidden passages and catacombs of pipes and equipment that dwelled directly behind the main walls of every area, and the common nobodies that maintained that unseen side were in his pocket. Ryan couldn't offer them anything.

"Keep your eyes peeled," Fontaine ordered. "And if any one of you sorry shits makes a false move and gets security's attention, I'll personally see to your early retirement." He let the comment sink in as he ran a threatening eye over the populace. It was easy to tell who knew the real him and who didn't, because the ones that did quickly shuffled out of his way. The majority were ignorant, and he was proud that he'd fooled so many into thinking that he was an honest man who had inadvertently earned Ryan's jealous wrath; however, there were rumors about him. Whenever he found out where they started or who had called the cops, some idiotic fuck paid for it with blood.

Fontaine was rounding a corner when he saw Catherine emerging from the bathroom looking brutally roughed up. If Sullivan had taken his Cat for a spin, Fontaine was going to raise hell. That pathetic whelp of an officer had no business sticking his fingers into another man's pot of gold.

"Catherine!" he called. The woman turned toward his voice with a blank face. Several expressions flashed across her features in a matter of seconds, and the intensity of them made Fontaine's pace cautiously slow. He saw anger, then frustration, and then sadness. Her hand lingered over her beltline before tugging the dress into place. "Don't just stand there," Fontaine growled. He walked up to her and swiftly removed his suit jacket. The warm, heavy fabric draped over her shoulders as Fontaine tried to keep her appearance from drawing attention to them. "Let's go home, doll."

Catherine's eyes softened and she threw her arms around him. The gentle, concerned look on her face—now _that_ was the Catherine that he knew. He didn't know what had come over her moments before, but now she was burying her face in his white shirt. He held her and inwardly smiled as he thought about how touching this scene must look to observers. Many already thought that he was a humane and charming man since he managed Fontaine's Home for the Poor.

"I hate to cut our reunion short," he softly spoke into Catherine's ear, "But we're not exactly here for a picnic." Catherine mutely nodded and the criminal party disappeared back into Fontaine's area of control. They approached a metal hatch and Fontaine knocked several times before a slot in the door opened. "Open it," he ordered, and they climbed through the opening into a tight passageway. After a short walk and an elevator ride, they emerged into an open square surrounded by levels of walkways. The area was peaceful and beautiful with its sweeping railings and columned paths. It was also under constant observation and the location of Fontaine's home.

"Home sweet home," Fontaine commented as he entered an access code in a machine attached to his front door. The electronic lock released and he opened the door. His hand landed on the small of Catherine's back and ushered her inside as he scanned the neighborhood. "You and you," he said, pointing at two men. "Do a quick round and see if Ryan was dumb enough to station anyone here for the night."

"And if we find anyone?" a man asked.

"Then treat him to some of my famous hospitality." The door was shut and automatically locked as Fontaine lit a cigarette and checked the time. 8:15. Hmmm. It was early. Maybe he ought to go back out and get some work done, but he wasn't particularly in the mood. His feet stepped onto the grand staircase leading up the center of the room. It branched into a Y at the top, and the right path led to his playroom—the in-house bar with a pool table and lounge—while the left led to his study, bedroom, and bath. That was where Catherine would be.

He decided to take the night off as he moved up the stairs. He rolled up his dress sleeves and glanced at the stuffed bear standing at the y of the stars. Catherine said that it was pointlessly ostentatious and a bit tacky. _Frank, wouldn't a statue look nicer_? He chuckled as he took the right path to grab some alcohol. A statue might look nicer, but Fontaine liked keeping the bear. Its violent, intimidating stance was a reminder that this classy apartment had its roots in brutality.

**************

The details were so familiar. Catherine walked through the study and into the bedroom beyond. How many times had she walked into this room? Slept in this bed? Read by that window? She breathed deeply and opened the large dresser that contained her clothing. The dresses, skirts, and blouses were hung neatly, and she decided that the display was the only orderly part of her life as she trailed a hand across the numerous fabrics. Fontaine had bought her that purple dress on her twenty-third birthday. She'd worn that blue cocktail dress on New Years Eve, 1952. That had been the night where Fontaine had smoothly slipped a diamond bracelet onto her wrist when she wasn't looking. She smiled distantly as she selected a sheer, pink nightgown and shut the dresser.

She turned and examined the large bed with its draping, burgundy curtains and sheets. Her jewelry box sat on a nightstand beside the bed, and there was a shotgun tucked under the wooden edge of the bed frame. She'd chosen the low table at the foot of the blankets. The mystery novel sitting atop it was hers. The cigarette pack, ashtray, revolver, and anti-personnel rounds were Fontaine's. She pulled the radio from her destroyed dress and carefully slid it under her side of the mattress as she moved toward the bathroom.

Ryan's offer felt distant as she stepped onto the tiled floor and walked around the glass wall concealing the massive, raised bathtub. As she noted that her favorite scent of bubble bath was sitting on the edge of the tub, she realized that this place was as much hers as Fontaine's. This was her home, and she had called it such since 1955. Her belongings had slowly migrated here even earlier than that and culminated in her dropping the bomb on her parents one calm afternoon when they were eating lunch. She had simply announced that she was going to be staying with Fontaine and left with everything that was hers. It was the day directly after she and Fontaine had talked about the decision.

"_Things are getting more dangerous," Catherine commented as she watched Fontaine shooting pool. "I saw Sullivan outside of my house." _

"_Does the big, bad police officer bother you?" Fontaine asked. "He's just a chump. I scared him off of the docks last week." _

"_He makes me nervous." Fontaine laughed._

"_And what's he watching? Your mom arranging flowers on the dining room table? Come on, doll. You're hardly ever home anyway. Every time I turn around, you're here." Catherine had to consider that, and Fontaine caught her contemplative expression._

"_You don't mind, do you?" _

"_Not when you know to mind your own business."_ That had been followed by a romp in the bed and permission to move in. Catherine's dress fell to the floor as she turned on the hot water. Enveloping steam soon clouded the air and fogged the glass walls. The warmth encircled her as she lowered her aching body into the soothing liquid and breathed a sigh of relief. She was covered up to her neck and leaned her head back against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes. She had to admit that being home felt nice.

The door opened and she heard Fontaine's measured steps crossing over the tiles. She opened her eyes and smiled up at him. He was dashingly handsome with his sleeves rolled up, collar loosened, and smirk firmly in place. She'd once told him that she didn't like baldheads but would make an exception for him, and he just laughed at her. She watched him set a chair down on the floor and straddle it backwards as he set two glasses and a bottle of red wine on the edge of the bathtub. He crossed his arms over the back of the chair and ran his eyes over her body.

"You don't waste time dipping in the suds, sweetheart," he drawled. "Did our friend Mr. Sullivan cause some damage? I hope no bruises are hiding under that water."

"No. I got away before he could do anything." She uncorked the wine and poured for both of them while her eyes glazed over in morose thoughts.

"What's got you so silent?" Fontaine probed. She knew better than to say 'nothing'. He never let vague answers like that pass.

"Sullivan said that Ryan wants to talk to me…personally."

"Oh?" Fontaine arched an eyebrow and took his glass. "Well Mr. Ryan can go play hopscotch with a big daddy. No one would miss him if he got drilled in the process either." The wine, the cigarette, Catherine in the tub…Fontaine was in a good mood as he watched her run a bar of soap up her slender arms. Moments like this made him forget there were people lurking outside, waiting for a chance to blow out his brains. "You know that I'll always take care of you, don't you kid?"

"I know," Catherine said as she drank her wine in one shot.

"Easy," Fontaine warned. "You lack the talent for mass consumption." He poured her another glass anyway and set his aside. "You're not traipsing off by your lonesome self again anytime soon—not after today." Catherine wanted to protest but knew that she had little chance of dissuading Fontaine if he had made up his mind, and disobeying him wasn't worth the risk of his anger. "I don't want to see you in Ryan's hands, got it? That bastard had enough trouble with his own women without worrying about someone else's."

"They say that he killed her; the woman he loved most," Catherine sadly commented. Fontaine snorted.

"Yeah, but he measured her against his ideals, and she lost. Too bad for her." He noticed Catherine's concerned expression and titled his head. "Cat, don't go getting the wrong ideas. As long as you're on team Fontaine, nothing's going to touch you." She stared into his piercing, brown eyes and sensed an integrity usually reserved for death threats against his enemies. She searched for doubt and couldn't find any, but he was so talented at deception. She wanted to believe him unquestioningly. It would have given her a peace that nothing else in this world could.

"Frank, do you think that we'll, you know, be together when this ends?"

"I'm not going anywhere, kid, and considering how well you've been handling yourself, I'd bet my money that you'll be here too. Just remember to shoot first, ask questions later."

"That's not exactly the reassurance that I was looking for…" Fontaine arched an eyebrow in puzzlement before he understood what she was getting at. It was completely unexpected, but she _had_ been with him for almost eight years. He was more surprised that the topic hadn't manifested itself earlier.

"You looking for some kind of promise, Cat?" he asked.

"I can't help but wonder why you've never shown any interest," Catherine honestly stated. Fontaine's brow furrowed as the cigarette taste went bad in his mouth.

"Did running from Sullivan knock a few bolts loose?" he asked, wounding Catherine. "I ain't that type, doll, not when Ryan's riding my ass." But the idea wasn't quite as revolting as it once had been. "Maybe later, kid, but look around you. War is coming. This is no time for fucking wedding bells and white dresses." She looked crestfallen but resigned.

"I didn't think that you'd agree…" she sighed. Ryan's offer began replaying in the back of her mind.

"We're already living like we're married," Fontaine reasoned. "And I like you, kid. Don't get pushy when we're in a hot spot." He didn't like the depressed look that she had or that Ryan was interested in contacting her. Keeping her meant appeasing her to some extent, and losing her after so long might actually bother him. She wasn't like the others, and he was so damn comfortable knowing that she would be in bed when he came home. He could beat the living shit out of another person and be stabbed and shoddily stitched up; escape death and order reparations, and still come home and find a home-cooked meal and arms waiting for him. Fuck. Fontaine calmly excused himself and left the bathroom. Fuck. He _was_ living like he was married. Not much bothered Fontaine, but the realization that he'd been settled into a routine with Catherine for years bugged the hell out of him.


	8. Chapter 8: Sinking Deeper

Chapter 8: Sinking Deeper

January 1955

There would be snow in her old town by now. The white of her dress reminded Catherine of that as the man beside her opened the door for her. This was the Gilded Lily, one of the most expensive spots for evening entertainment in all of Fort Frolic. Catherine's sparkling shoes gracefully stepped into the bustling ballroom, and the energetic atmosphere and beauty of the building took her breath away despite that she was here on business. The entire ceiling was glass, and the crystal lights dangling from it illuminated a central dancing floor and live orchestra. The room was a massive circle of opulence and splendid gowns and suits.

Catherine kept to the walkway girdling the dance floor. It was scattered with scarlet couches and armchairs, dining tables of finely carved wood, and shadowy, private booths. Free floating lights bobbed through the air like fairies courtesy of bot technology merged with iridescent, raw plasmid. It was a wonderland of color and light as she drifted toward a couch to watch the festivities. Fontaine had brought her here once, and a week later she was asked to return, on her own, to find a certain gentleman. Whether or not Fontaine had brought her here to familiarize her with the setting for her next mission or not didn't matter. That night had been a fabulous evening, and she had been the envy of the crowd since she was Fontaine's girl.

Now Catherine scanned the surroundings for her target, and it did not take long for her to find him. He was old enough to be her father with his graying hair and walking cane, but that didn't matter. Victor Kolinsky was allied with Ryan, which wasn't noteworthy in and of itself, but an industrial spy had recently been caught tampering at Prometheus Point, and he'd confessed to working for Kolinsky. This came right on the heels of Ryan's crack down on smuggling. Many of the smugglers were now dead. Fontaine had murdered the weaker-minded ones himself, just incase they turned on him. The others hadn't squealed due to the absolute fear that Fontaine held over them.

It was time for stage two of the plan. Catherine slipped into seductive mode as she meandered over to Kolinsky with her most alluring smile. The man immediately noticed her in her revealing gown. The racy outfit highlighted her long legs as she drew into his personal space.

"Would you care to treat a lady to a dance?" she teased. He hungrily agreed, and Catherine outwardly smiled while she inwardly cringed. She did not like his hands on her body or his eyes on her chest as they spun. She also didn't want him to die, and for an insane second, she considered telling him to run. Of course, she opted for keeping her mouth shut and doing her job as quickly as possible.

They danced and she planted the occasional, suggestive touch against his body, sending an unspoken invitation that the man was unlikely to refuse. They soon found themselves in one of the private back rooms that were reserved for this sort of activity, and he held Catherine tightly as he struggled to unzip her dress. _Not this time_, she thought. Insta-Sleep morphed her hand into an off-colored purple and soon a hazy cloud settled over Kolinsky's face. He fell to the floor in a strong fit of snoring as he slept, which left Catherine with plenty of time to do her job. Someone should have warned him not to dance with Fontaine's woman. The more intelligent men were too scared to even ask her for a quick waltz lest they arouse Fontaine's anger.

"He's ready," she spoke into her radio. Soon several men would arrive to carry Kolinsky's unconscious form away. What happened from there, she didn't know and didn't want to know. She calmly waited until someone knocked on the door.

"Mr. Kolinsky?" the person asked. "Your wife's looking for you." Shit. Catherine had not counted on the bodyguards bothering them. The door opened before she could answer, and she found herself staring at a large, muscled man in a tightly fitted suit. He took one look at the fallen body on the floor and reached for his gun. Catherine's reaction was instinctual as her arm raised and electrocuted him. He yelped, jerked in place, and then fell to the floor with a groan. Remorse already flared to life inside Catherine's chest as she drug the body into the booth and shut the door.

"Did you hear someone in pain?" another person in the hallway asked.

"Mind your own business!" a rough voice ordered. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. That was one of Fontaine's men. She left the bodies for them and exited the room. She could hear them following her as they made for the main doors, and did their best to be discrete. The two men who'd come for Kolinsky held him up between their shoulders, as if they were helping a drunken friend home for the night. Everyone bought the act except for the man's friends.

"Where you do think you're going with him?" one of them demanded, accosting them at the door. He had an Insect Swarm plasmid out and ready to strike. Bees crawled over his hand and into the fleshy holes that had become their hive.

"Go back to the party," and Fontaine's men shifted their clothing to reveal guns beneath their suit jackets.

"Tell Fontaine to go to hell," the man responded and unleashed a cloud of stinging insects. Catherine responded by spraying the pests with acid, and some of the liquid splattered on the man's clothing. He quickly threw his smoking jacket to the ground and looked up to find Catherine pointing a small, lady's revolver at his face. She was terrified that she probably looked as determined and heartless as Fontaine did before he executed someone.

"The man said 'go back to the party'," she coldly stated and was relieved that he listened. When they were outside of the building, her insides quaked both from what she was doing, what she had almost done, and her need for Eve. She had forgotten to ask Fontaine for a fix before she'd left for the evening, and now she was paying for it. First she heard the voice. _Fontaine this, Fontaine that. It's all so trifling compared to art_. The lazy tone struck her as slightly eccentric as she tried to keep staring straight ahead. Her hands began to shake as she thought about Eve hypos. There should be a machine nearby, but she didn't have any money. She hadn't worked for pay in a long time, and Fontaine gave her everything that she needed. She did have money saved, but she knew that spending it on hypos would quickly suck it dry, and it was for emergency uses only.

_No, no, no! Tell Andrew that I have a performance tonight. We can talk afterwards. Don't be dull and boring, Silas. It's unsightly to be boring. I'll talk to his majesty about Anna's comments later_. The voice invaded Catherine's head and she stumbled in confusion.

"Hey, you alright, Miss Weathers?" one of the men with her asked. She barely heard him as she watched a shadowy, blue figure walk by her. His long, black coattails dangled behind him as he swooped his arm in an arch, motioning to Fort Frolic's attractions. _Ah, I can feel my muse rising. Anna cannot compete with my inspirational genius._ Catherine really, really needed some Eve. The vision before her faded and she continued walking like a zombie. Somehow, she ended up at Olympus Heights and in the bedroom that she and Fontaine shared. She collapsed onto the bed.

"Frank…" she called. She knew that he was somewhere nearby and would know what was wrong with her.

"How'd it go?" he drawled.

"Frank…" He walked into the room and casually glanced over her. Her eyes pleaded with him, but he was rock solid.

"Did you get the job done?" he asked offhandedly, as if nothing were wrong.

"Please," Catherine begged. Fontaine arched an eyebrow and she sighed. "Yes. They took him to the fisheries for holding." He chuckled in delight and snuffed his cigarette on an ashtray beside the bed.

"Good work, kid." Finally he revealed a hypo and injected her. Catherine had never known that relief could feel so satisfying. Each time was like a new experience, and Eve wasn't even as wonderful as Adam, but Fontaine was extremely cautious when giving her Adam. In fact, he almost entirely forbade it, and for that Catherine was grateful. She knew that Adam easily could fry a person's brain. She'd seen it first hand. "There's some trash that I need to take out," Fontaine told her.

"You're going out?" Catherine asked.

"Yeah. Here, straighten my tie, would you?" Catherine did as requested. "I owe you a million, kid." He pulled her into a kiss. "Here's a little something extra for any problems you had." He pressed another hypo into her hand. "Don't wait up." He was gone, and Catherine sunk onto the floor with the hypo in her hand. She'd cooked a man with electricity tonight, and the thought made her sick. She'd seen too much death for the notion to bother her, but pulling the trigger…now that hurt. She raised the hypo and poised to throw it against the wall. Rejecting it and shattering its control would have given her immense pleasure, but no, she retracted the action and somberly slid the needle into her skin.

***************

The bruised and bleeding man was tied to a chair at the center of the rundown room. His head hung low, and his once slicked back hair flopped forward around his face in total disarray. Fontaine lifted the man's head and landed another punch to his face, earning a scream as the bridge of his nose broke.

"Last time," Fontaine warned. "Who else is in your pocket? Kenneth? Shigeru?"

"I..." the man gasped, spitting blood onto the floor. "I'm not giving you shit." Fontaine smirked.

"What, did I stutter or something? You got loose marbles? I said 'talk'." Kolinsky glared at him. "Boys, untie him," Fontaine ordered. As his assistants fumbled with the ropes and pulled the man from his seat, Fontaine motioned them toward a piece of heavy equipment. "Wizen up, old man," he cautioned. "While you and Ryan have been screwing dancers, this city found a new master. Set him on the conveyer belt."

Kolinsky's eyes widened as his back hit the rough ridges of the belt, but Fontaine's men held him firmly in place. His head tilted backward and stared in terror at the dark metal door that he'd go through if he were released.

"See that machine up there?" Fontaine asked. "That's where the fish organs go and get processed. The chunks come out real fine, like pink sand."

"I'll talk!" Kolinsky yelled. "I'll talk, just get me off of this damned thing!"

"Now that's music to my ears," Fontaine smiled. "Get it done," he ordered his men. They took Kolinsky toward another room as Fontaine moved toward his office. He'd have a complete list of names delivered to him and then Kolinsky might or might not be spared. He hadn't decided.

"What's this?" he asked when he found several men lounging in his office, waiting for him. Peirce sat on his office couch with an almost-empty bottle of rum in his lap.

"We're celebrating, boss!" he announced. Fontaine snorted as he grabbed the rum from him and finished it. "It's my birthday."

"How nice," Fontaine commented as he leaned against his desk. There were plenty of full bottles still sitting around, and he decided to take a few drinks before breaking up this little spectacle.

"We're going to Fort Frolic for women," one man happily commented.

"Yep," Peirce agreed. "A man needs a woman on his birthday." He was still coherent, but he'd certainly had too much to drink, which explained his next, daring comment. "You're lucky, boss."

"Oh?" Fontaine asked, but he wasn't really interested until he heard the reply.

"Yeah, you've got yourself a dame to warm your bed every night. Man, Catherine's a nice piece of ass. I wish that she was mine." Fontaine set his rum down and crossed his arms. His head was titled backward, eyes cold steel despite their calm appearance. The other men present shifted nervously and warily eyed their boss. They had learned fairly quickly to tell when he was angry, and the lessons were sometimes painful.

"You're out of line, Peirce," Fontaine said, sounding totally relaxed. Peirce didn't seem to hear him.

"Yeah, I remember when she was mine," he continued. "I never got into her panties though. Damn, but I did my best. Those curvy hips and tight ass—" Fontaine grabbed the intoxicated man by his shirt and threateningly raised a fist.

"I'm not telling you again," Fontaine growled.

"Peirce, you dumb fuck," one of the other men urgently said. "Let's go."

"Maybe I still got a chance…" Peirce mused. Fontaine's punched him across the jaw and lifted him from the couch to hurtle him into the wall.

"I don't share," Fontaine ground out. "And if you go anywhere near Catherine, I'm going to rip your eyes out and use them for fish bait, got it?" Peirce kept quiet but hastily nodded. He was unsuccessfully grappling with the doorknob as his delayed instincts told him to run. Fontaine kicked him in the gut and then the chest. "Piece of shit," Fontaine grumbled. "Get out of my sight before I load my pistol." Everyone ran to obey, and he was left alone at his desk.

He didn't mind joking about Cat. He liked when other men noticed her but knew that they couldn't have her. He'd even drop lines about her body in front of his own workers to boast about how great he had it, but no one joked about touching her, ever. Such comments inclined him to kill as surely as someone trying to cut into his smuggling profits would. What was Fontaine's was exclusively his, and no one forgot who the boss was. The other girls, like Julia, well, he'd known that she was sleeping with other men at the same time that she was with him, and that hadn't bothered him, but Catherine was different. It was apparent that she was a bit more personal, like his favorite revolver. No one took a man's gun and used it without his permission. God have mercy on the idiot who ever tried anything with her, because Fontaine would have none.


	9. Chapter 9: Last Chance

Chapter 9: Last Chance

December 1957

It was the day after Catherine mentioned solidifying their relationship, and Fontaine found himself smoking profusely and irritably cussing more than usual. He hated admitting it, but this situation was rubbing against his nerves. The arrangement that they currently had was good enough in his opinion. They didn't need to waste time tying the knot or signing documents. Everyone knew that she was his, and he had thought that was sufficient since she had never said anything. Then again, the fact that she was so clearly his meant that giving her a ring wouldn't change anything.

_Eight years, Fontaine, eight fucking years_. He couldn't believe that she'd lasted that long. Eight years was enough time for all but the most useful of assistants to outlive their welcome, but here she was, invading his thoughts throughout the day. If he was going to a meeting, he often took her with him. If there was an incident, he arranged to have her safely moved. When he took off his shoes and checked his gun before bed, he expected her to lean over and give him a back rub. And when he got injured? Don't even start him on that. Cat adopted the most worried expressions, tended his wounds, and fetched him anything that he needed.

Where the hell was that other pack of cigarettes?

Everyone who was involved in his operations of his knew how close Catherine was to him. That was another reason to be worried about Ryan's interest in her, because Fontaine didn't want him planting ideas in Cat's mind. One day her eyes might open to his less-than-honorable intentions and make her doubt him. He'd already seen it in her eyes since times had gotten hard, but she was always there for him in the end. Maybe giving her a ring wasn't a bad idea after all. Nothing would change, but she'd feel like she was special to him anyway. Flattery could get a man anywhere.

Poor sap of a woman. Leading her on for all these years had resulted to some of his greatest successes and closest escapes, and it was nice to always have someone to warm his bed. There were also those moments where she made him laugh. Fontaine smirked around his cigarette. There were days so immersed in violence that he came home wound up for blood and action only to have it disappear as he joined her in the bath. And she knew his moods so well that she could anticipate what kind of alcohol he would want.

Great—he had found the other cigarettes. Now where was that lighter? Catherine could light it with a quick flick, and the thought made Fontaine cringe. This was not good. When had he started being protective of her, even beating his own men? When had she slipped so deep that he never considered the thought of her not being around? Part of him wanted to go shoot her in the head right now, if only to prove that he'd do it.

There was the lighter. He held the metal in his hand and ran his thumb over the engraving on the outside: F.F. Catherine had gotten this for his thirty-second birthday, which had been this year. He lit up a new cigarette and inhaled deeply.

What the hell? He'd give her a ring to keep her happy and ensure that her in-depth knowledge of him didn't turn into a weakness. Maybe marriage wouldn't be so bad either. It looked good to go to charity events and meetings with the same woman year after year, because it lent him that "good, dependable guy" image, and marriage didn't mean that he had to stop fooling around on the side. He occasionally had a fling with some street floozy at Fort Frolic, just for variety, but that had become more seldom as work intensified. Sex was sex. When he could have all the sex that he wanted for free, and from someone who knew exactly what he liked, paying for services or working to charm someone new wasn't as appealing as it once had been.

Fontaine grabbed his suit jacket and entered a back passageway. The owner of the best jewelry shop in Rapture owed him a favor for protecting his business from some splicers.

*************

The radio crackled to life as Catherine sat on the bed, reading the newspaper. It was saturated in Ryan propaganda, but everything down here had turned into propaganda, and there was nothing else to do. She had touched one of Fontaine's nerves last night; of that she was sure, because he hadn't even spoken to her this morning. He'd been gone when she awoke and without a word as to what she was supposed to do that day. She pondered why the question of marriage bothered him, but she assumed that it had to do with his 'nothing tying me down' attitude. He was a man that didn't like being predictable or appearing weak.

As the radio continued to buzz, she ripped it from its hiding place and rushed into the bathroom. If Fontaine found her with this…well, she'd seen him do some terrifying things to other people, and she didn't want him to think that she was betraying him. She locked the door and sat on the edge of the bathtub as she tuned the signal.

"Miss Weathers, I presume?" Ryan asked.

"Yes, it's me," she answered.

"Since you accepted my present, no matter how grudgingly, I'm assuming that my offer holds some interest for you. Have you stopped deluding yourself and come to a decision yet? I am a patient man, but you are trying my hand." Catherine frowned.

"I need some more time to consider your offer," she said. "And how do I know that you're not playing me? According to Frank, there is no reversal for plasmids. I won't trade one master for another."

"You're asking me for proof when Fontaine has never given you any? I find that most peculiar considering that he is a con man and I am a visionary," Ryan mockingly scoffed. "And how do you suggest that I provide proof when you stay deep in his territory? I won't send my men there to die, and if you come to me, he'll know about it and this gamble will be ruined for nothing. You are on your own, Miss Weathers, but if you stay where you are, you'll be drug so far under that no amount of help will save you. Even monitored splicers lose control over time, and you're no better than they were. You have precisely two days to decide."

So that was it. In two days she would seal her fate and that of Fontaine. If she killed him, she could possibly be free, and not just from her addiction. She'd be mentally free to pursue what she wished and help people rather than harm them. She wouldn't wonder every second of every day what Fontaine would require of her next. She'd be her own woman, but it wasn't that simple; for she didn't want to buy her freedom with blood. Fontaine was the only thing tethering her to sanity right now, and he had been the only person to take care of her even when she made a big mistake. He gave her peace of mind when they lost themselves in their own world and forgot about the troubles surrounding them. He was the only man to ever touch her and make her feel special, and she thought that maybe that was partly genuine since she was still living here. She loved him, or had she merely convinced herself of that? Some days she hated him.

Catherine returned the radio to its hiding place and walked to the window. Her hand touched the glass, and her eyes searched the watery stillness beyond for something, anything. This place had promised to be the most wondrous experience. Her parents had hoped for a grand future for her.

Her parents.

Catherine flinched. Arrangements had been so satisfactory that her father had signed that deal with Fontaine, but once the pressure for his restaurant to sell illegal, imported alcohol started, he'd wanted out. He'd tried to cancel the deal and have nothing to do with Fontaine or his men, but she had known that Frank wouldn't let the issue drop. Remembering what had happened made Catherine's eyes water. She'd unintentionally spied on her father by answering seemingly unimportant questions for Fontaine. The night that her parents went out for an anniversary dinner, Fontaine joined them and had a discussion. That was the last time that her father ever openly complained about their partnership. Her relationship with them had been ruined by the incident, even after she tried to apologize for her role in the tragedy. They had become totally estranged, and that made Fontaine the sole, binding relationship in her life.

And what about Leonard Howell? Catherine didn't even want to remember that man. He'd been her age, and perfectly cheerful and flirtatious. He made a few innocent passes at her, and she naturally brushed him off even though she was flattered by the attention. It turned out that he was one of Ryan's men, and Fontaine had known that from the moment that he hired him. When the game was up and Fontaine demanded answers, he'd threatened to maim Catherine if Leo didn't talk. Good lord; how many men had she inadvertently harmed?

Catherine's fists clenched in frustration. This was all Fontaine's fault. If he hadn't spread plasmids or injected her, Rapture wouldn't be going to hell. If he hadn't organized the workers and started a crime syndicate, Ryan wouldn't have warped into a monster. Everything that was destroying Rapture went back to him, and why? Catherine was so upset that she slammed her hands against the window. He was doing it for wealth and power. What kind of a sick, selfish bastard did it take to do something like this?

Maybe killing him was the best option.

No, it was the only option if she wanted to escape this. She couldn't just leave on her own. For one, there was her lack of money and addiction. Two, Fontaine didn't let people walk away. Nothing was that simple. Turning tail and running meant a certain, bloody end. No one fucked with Fontaine, but Catherine decided that she would. For the pain that he had caused and to save lives, she would do this.

No sooner had she reached her decision than the door below opened. Fontaine's rough, accented drawl was unmistakable as he spared a word with the guards that he'd left downstairs. His footfalls began climbing the steps, and Catherine steeled her nerves as she walked into the study to intercept him. She couldn't crumble under his deceptively gentle words or gestures, but she felt a slight slip in her resolve as he opened the door and stepped inside. She curiously watched him go to his desk and dropped something into the top drawer before glancing at her.

"How was your day, doll?" She was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was wearing a sheer, white nightgown as his eyes trailed over her.

"It was nothing special," she stated. Her left hand was twitching as he tossed his jacket over the back of his chair and strolled over to her. "You've been smoking a lot," she observed as he drew closer. The scent clung to ever inch of him as he wrapped arms around her.

"Tell me something that I don't know," he smirked. Catherine mechanically returned his kisses as he moved her to the desk. She was vaguely aware of him lifting her onto it and spreading her legs as he dropped his trousers. Her mind was elsewhere, dwelling on what would happen rather than what was happening. She hated to admit it, but the feel of him was comforting as she wrapped her arms around him. Fontaine never did anything half-ass, which also meant that he was an energetic and passionate lover. Sometimes this was the only reassurance she had that the world was made of more than madness. With every plunge, she wanted to hold onto him more and more.

No! She had to do this. Her arms were behind his back, and she lifted the left one so that it wasn't touching him. In his preoccupation, he didn't hear the faint sound of her hand morphing into Iron Hand. The spikes grew out of her flesh in jagged, deadly angles as she stared at it. With one hard hit on the back of the neck, he'd be dead. His hold on her would be gone forever.

He squeezed her backside and kissed her neck. She stretched to allow him better access to her collarbone, even as her eyes never left her mutated hand. She remembered how she had killed a stranger with this plasmid when he attacked her while yelling, "Fontaine's whore!" Her eyes watered in humiliation and finality, for she was going to kill the man that she loved. It made her as bad as Ryan and Fontaine.

Her hand tensed for the crushing blow when Fontaine stiffened and breathed deeply in release. Warmth spread across Catherine's lower body as he rested his forehead against her shoulder.

"You know something, kid?" he huskily asked. "You're the only tender thing left down here," and with his soft words, he pulled her tightly against him as he breathed against her skin. "Don't go changing on me." Catherine felt the tears fall as her muscles loosened. The words broke her hardened heart. She closed her eyes and lulled her head against his. She was the only tender thing in his world, and he cared about that. There was a mixture of frustration and silent sorrow as her plasmid vanished. Killing him wouldn't set her free, not by a long shot.

"What's with the waterworks?" Fontaine asked as he retrieved his pants.

"Some days, the craziness of this place makes me want to scream," Catherine whispered. His brown eyes found hers and studied her expression.

"That's life," he dismissed. And so it was. "Get some rest, doll. You look beat." _You have no idea, Frank_. Catherine left him confused as she lay on the bed and took a nap. He paused in the doorway of the study and stared at her. He'd wait to surprise her with the diamond until later. The timing had to be perfect in order to have the maximum impact. Let Ryan try and play hardball after that.


	10. Chapter 10: Collision Course

Chapter 10: Collision Course

August 1956

Catherine sat on the couch as she watched Fontaine shooting pool. They were alone, and he was practicing against himself while Catherine pretended to be interested in the grocery list that she was making. Of course she wasn't allowed to go out and get groceries on her own anymore. Even in Olympus Heights, Rapture had become a very dangerous place, especially when she was connected to Fontaine, and so their habits had changed. It wasn't unusual for them to spend several evenings a week at home now, both for security reasons and because they'd worked all day. He might leave again later, for more secretive business, but Catherine was usually omitted from nighttime interrogations. They could call them what they liked, but Catherine had another word for their interrogations: torture sessions.

Tonight they were quiet, since Fontaine seemed moody. Sometimes he invited a few fellows over to play pool against, discuss business, and casually smoke, but not tonight. He smoked away and scowled as he missed a shot. Life was forever changing and requiring fast actions on their part, yet evenings like this felt normal and static. They hadn't done anything to break their habits for some time.

"Am I that amazing to watch or what?" Fontaine sarcastically asked. "Give me some space." Catherine obediently left the room. He'd obviously had a bad day at the docks, which remained his base of operations. Or perhaps Suchong wasn't making progress fast enough for Fontaine's taste. Either way, perhaps she could lighten his mood. She needed a break from the horrors and planning, even if he didn't.

She went downstairs and found a box of strawberries on the counter. Within a short time, she had made biscuits and a sugar, strawberry sauce. Fontaine had a real sweat tooth, which made her laugh because it was something so innocent and pleasant. He joked that if weapons weren't more profitable, he'd have wrangled the candy shops and bakeries into his control first. She smiled as she began spooning the dessert into two glass dishes.

"Hey, Cat!" she heard Fontaine call. "What's cooking?" She grinned as she topped the dishes with whipped cream and took them upstairs. He was chalking his stick and eyeing her offering. She wordlessly placed them on the bar counter and sat down.

"Would you still like some space?" she asked. Fontaine grinned as he reached for a bowl.

"Don't be a wise guy," he warned.

"I'm picking up your bad habits," she teased. He relented and sat down beside her. She sure knew how to break the tediousness of the slow days. Even amid the mounting tension in Rapture, cracking jokes and indulging in sweets always seemed to find its place.

"You're one in a million," Fontaine said in thanks as he ate. "Three little sisters died today," he darkly continued, almost to himself. "Their big daddies forgot their jobs, the stupid lugs, and Suchong loves to make promises. 'It will be ironed out'." Fontaine snorted and Catherine listened. So that was what had him upset. "The supply of girls down here isn't exactly increasing." He finished eating and held up the empty dish. "Seconds?"

"You're as bad with sugar as you are with cigarettes," Catherine admonished.

"It takes a real man to appreciate vice." Catherine loved the relaxed, playful set of his face. Moments like these reminded her of when they first met. That Frank was still in there, just buried by rising demands for his brutal side.

***********

December 1957

She hadn't killed him, but she had tried. She had wanted to, but after the incident at the desk, she wondered if she would ever be capable of doing such a thing. She sighed and continued dusting the bookshelves in Fontaine's study. The dusting brush worked its way toward his desk, and she began straightening his belongings. She had not always been allowed to touch his things, especially the ones on his desk, because incriminating evidence might be lying around, but that had been years ago. The real Fontaine had since been made known to her, and after that, there was no reason for him to hide.

Her hand lifted a stray piece of paper and examined its contents: Atlas. The name was circled several times, and she wondered what it meant. She set it on a stack of other documents and opened the drawers to see if there was any work to be done. Her hand pushed aside cigarette packs and office supplies as she glanced through the space with boredom. Wait. What was the little black box? She gingerly lifted it and popped open the lid. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped. For a moment, she stood frozen in place, unthinking and stunned.

Her next coherent thought was that it was beautiful. It was a ring with three, round diamonds set in a golden band, and she didn't even dare guess a price tag. Now that he had money, Fontaine made it a point of pride to buy the best of everything. Her heart fluttered in excitement and disbelief. So he _had_ thought about marriage, but when would he ask her? She hurriedly shut the box and slammed it back into the drawer. She tried to undo her cleaning so that he would never guess that she had seen it. A smile creased her features as she shuffled to and fro. She hadn't actually thought that he'd ever ask her. Perhaps there was a bright light at the end of this tunnel.

Satisfied with her work, Catherine fled to the bedroom and surprised herself with tears. Her future would forever be bound to him once she slipped that ring on, and that included being married to the horrible business that Fontaine was involved in. Was this really a bright light or her ultimate doom? She considered that it might be both. She was happy, but she was frustrated. That was why the tears came and her throat tightened. What should have been one of the happiest moments of her life was cruelly tainted by the corruption of Rapture.

Whether or not she'd be damned, Catherine knew that this was the only course in life that offered something that she still wanted. What she had always wanted was Fontaine. From the very beginning, she had wanted to be his, and she'd gotten her wish no matter how twisted it was. _Dependency_, her mind whispered. She wiped the tears away. There was nothing else left down here worth fighting for or devoting her life to besides him, and if she lost purpose, then what? The world was bleak either way. She decided to spend what time she had left with the one person remaining in her life. It was all she had.

Catherine pulled the radio out from under the bed and turned it on.

"Hello?" she called. There was a long pause and then Ryan began speaking.

"You have reached a decision," he stated.

"Yes…" She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes.

"And?" Ryan sounded annoyed.

"And go to hell, Andrew Ryan," she said, and for such a strong statement, it came out soft and hollow. He began mocking her, but Catherine wasn't listening. She threw the radio on the floor and smashed it with Iron Hand. She had enough problems in her life without Ryan trying to poison her mind. The remnants of the machine were swept into a dustpan, tossed into the trash, and covered with papers. She was neither happy nor sad as she left the mess behind her and continued to clean the house. He would order her death now, but that put her and Fontaine in the same boat, and she wouldn't regret dying. She was crossing the main stairwell when the front door slid open.

"Cat!" Fontaine yelled. She stopped mid-step and watched him enter the house with five armed men. They held machine guns at the ready and scanned the room as Fontaine motioned Catherine toward him with the barrel of his pistol. "Get down here. We're leaving." Catherine knew better than to question his urgency, and so she dropped her cleaning tools right where she was and ran to him. "Alright, let's move," Fontaine ordered.

"What's going on?" Catherine asked in confusion.

"Keep your head down!" Fontaine ordered as gunshots cracked through the open area outside of the house. There were several small, armored vehicles waiting for them, drivers firing from the windows at the columns across the way. The small vehicles were modified versions of the speedy carts that maintenance used to travel across the city, and Catherine found herself being pushed into one. Her left hand was already twitching in a defensive reflex as plasmids bubbled beneath the skin. She heard gunshots glance off of the vehicle and dent its metal bulk with harsh, metallic pings. Fontaine jumped into the same vehicle and landed beside her.

"Drive!" he yelled. "Get us to Callisto!" Catherine recognized the name of the factory and wondered why they were going there. The vehicles accelerated forward, and the roaring of their engines vibrated Catherine's seat as she watched men running toward their fleeing forms with raised weapons. Security bots buzzed and angrily tried to keep up, but the carts were faster. The enemies were quickly left behind as the three vehicles sped down the wide corridors of Rapture's main streets, scattering any people foolish enough to be out during a gunfight.

"Frank, what's happening? Where are we going?" she frantically asked.

"That fucker actually called Ryan on me," Fontaine darkly mused.

"Who?"

"Old Peachy. I thought that chum had been blown sky high when I detonated the weapon's hold." He glanced at her and smirked. "Relax, kid. Ryan's making a move on the house, but we can use the tunnels near Callisto to reach the docks. Ryan's arm doesn't stretch that far, and I got a little surprise in store for him…" Fontaine chuckled and lit himself a cigarette. "Ryan wants to kill Frank Fontaine. Well, I'm going to grant his wish."

"What?" Catherine demanded. Her worried eyes sought Fontaine's cold ones.

"Nothing, Cat, nothing." He reached across the seat and pulled her to him. "Stay close, kid." She smiled humorlessly. Was it for her sake or his that he asked such a thing? She leaned against his shoulder, resigned herself, and examined a small bloodstain on his white collar.

"Frank, are you…?"

"It's not mine." She relaxed and she could feel his eyes on her as she reclined her head against his neck. "Here we are." The vehicles pulled up to a large metal door, and armed men approached them. "It's us, boys," Fontaine stated. "Open it." The door screeched and then gears turned, clearing a path into the maintenance tunnels. As they entered, the doors were sealed behind them, and Catherine did not like the dim lighting in this vacant pathway.

"Boss," the driver called. "There's something blocking the path up ahead."

"What it is?" Fontaine demanded.

"I don't know…it's…oh, shit!" The brakes were hit with full force, making the car screech and skid forward. Catherine slammed into the back of the driver's seat and rubbed her sore head as the cursing continued. Somewhere, a little girl was screaming, but that didn't make sense. Why would a child…Catherine's jaw clenched.

"Damn it!" Fontaine yelled. The other vehicles had also stopped, and they sat in a line before a small girl, who crouched in the middle of the tunnel, inches from the front car's hood. Under normal circumstances, no one would have cared about running her over, but this was different. She was carrying a large syringe, and that meant big trouble since she was yelling.

"Mr. Bubbles!" she screamed.

The floor vibrated as ominous, heavy footfalls stormed across the metal. Catherine felt panic rising in the back of her throat. Oh no. "Kill it!" Fontaine was yelling. He roughly grabbed Catherine's arm and violently yanked her out of the machine and toward the wall. She turned in time to see a gigantic drill shredding the front seats of their vehicle. Fontaine and the other men were already firing at the Big Daddy with full force while the little sister shrieked for help and ran for a hiding place.

"Shitty piece," Fontaine cursed as his ammo ran out. Catherine raised her hand and launched electricity at the big daddy in its grotesque diving suit with a drill for a right arm. It was assaulting the remaining vehicles and mindlessly grunting and swinging at anything that moved. Blood flew in a spiral pattern as the drill caught one of the guards in the chest, which sent the panic meter through the roof. The others were yelling and firing like maniacs. Catherine raised her arm to shock the daddy yet again, but Fontaine grabbed her arm and forced it down.

"Forget them," he dismissed. "We have to move. Ryan will be on our tails. He's got eyes all over this damn place." They ran headlong down the tunnel, but Catherine was having problems keeping up with Fontaine. She was, after all, only wearing sandals, and she wasn't as physically conditioned as Fontaine was. She did her best to keep up as the scene behind them disappeared. Fontaine reached backward and grabbed her wrist to ensure that she was with him as they entered a much narrower pathway. Pipes ran overhead in dizzying patterns, and the floor was metal grating that echoed with their every step. The sounds of battle disappeared, and the tunnel swallowed them. It was only the two of them in a twisting, turning world of engineering genius.

***********

Sullivan and his assistants viewed the mess before them and fell speechless. Mutilated bodies and metal chunks and equipment were strewn across the tunnel in a chaotic scene of merciless destruction. It was difficult to tell by the bloody faces, but a closer inspection confirmed that Fontaine and Weathers weren't among the dead.

"They can't have gone far," Sullivan stated. "This time, we take two heads back to Ryan. It's time to end this."


	11. Chapter 11: And like that, She was Gone

Chapter 11: And like that, She was Gone

December 1957

"Stop," Fontaine ordered. He pulled her against him as they ducked to the side of the doorway. The red beam of a security camera swept over the place where they'd been standing a moment before. In the dim lighting, Catherine breathed lowly and listened to the mechanical turning of the machine with its single, glowing eye.

"I got it," she said. She moved closer to the doorway and waited until the light passed one more time before swinging around the frame and firing a wave of electricity at the security station. The machine buzzed from the power overload and began smoking after the lens blew out.

"Nice work," Fontaine commended as he joined her in the room. "If we go up that flight of stairs and go left, we'll reach a fork. There are three tunnels. The first one goes to the docks, the second to storage, and the third to Venus Suites. Got it?" Catherine nodded. A loud, metallic thump caused both to examine the pathway behind them. Nothing could be seen. "Come on."

Catherine followed Fontaine through the dirty corridors and found herself thinking about their home. It had been the only place that felt secure for the last few years, and now Ryan had invaded it. She wondered if there was any going back, or if Fontaine would even be the winner in this conflict. What had he meant by 'Atlas'? She knew that he was up to something. He always seemed to be a step ahead in this game, sometimes only unveiling his brilliant plans to her seconds before they went into effect.

"Frank, will we need to stay at the docks?" she asked.

"Not for long, doll," he answered. "Fontaine's going to disappear."

"What do you mean?" He paused and pulled her into a small space between the piping. He covered her mouth with his hand and spoke lowly into her ear. "This goes nowhere, Cat, understand?" She nodded. "In a few weeks, Fontaine's going to be 'killed', and someone fresh is going to take his place—a real charming, innocent, working-class hero." Her eyes expressed her unspoken concerns, and Fontaine smirked. "Why the long face? The new guy's going to take care of Fontaine's grieving widow out of respect for the man. You'll see, kid. Keep yourself discreet, and no one needs to know that Atlas is keeping you in his bed." She nodded her understanding and Fontaine returned to the corridor.

"Damn it's hot," Fontaine complained as he removed his suit jacket and slung it over his shoulder. Catherine silently agreed as the heat of the corridor made her clothing sticky. Her eyes fixed themselves on Fontaine's tall figure and determined steps. He had chosen a suiting name for his new persona: Atlas. Standing at six feet with handsome features and toned muscles, many women would have found him appealing.

"Fontaine's widow?" Catherine suddenly thought aloud. Fontaine glanced back at her with a probing stare. He'd accidently allowed that to slip out, and he hadn't even noticed, but if he'd given his proposal plans away, then he couldn't understand the morose expression on Catherine's face.

"Yeah, widow," he stated, waiting for her reaction.

"But…" she sighed. "Ryan took the house." Fontaine laughed.

"You found the ring, didn't you?" he asked. So he didn't get to surprise her in some romantic way that'd win her heart, but this worked too. "Doll, don't you worry. Ryan wants us, not my belongings. He'll leave the house as is, and there aren't looters left in this city who are dumb enough to rob me." Catherine lightly smiled and Fontaine grinned. "So what did you think?"

"You know what I thought," she happily said. "Thank you, Frank."

"That's a 'yes' then?" he teased. "Hello, Mrs. Fontaine." It sounded so torturously wonderful that Catherine reached out and tenderly squeezed his hand. He showed no response but continued moving forward. Catherine Fontaine. She could more than live with that, and, surprisingly, so could he.

_Thud_.

"Did you hear that?" Catherine whispered. They stopped.

"Keep moving," Fontaine replied as he checked his gun. "The path to the docks is right up there. Another ten minutes and we're untouchable."

_Thud._

"Shit, Sullivan! How the hell are we supposed to find anything in this maze?" Catherine tensed at the sound of the voice.

"They're too close to outrun," she stated. Fontaine was frowning as he lifted his gun. "How many do you think there are?"

"Too many," he spat. "Are you high on Eve?" She nodded. "Let's move. I'm not getting caught in a gunfight in this narrow space. It's a goddamned death trap." He grabbed Catherine's hand and they began moving again. She knew that they'd never make it by running, and fighting would probably be disastrous in this tight space, as Fontaine had warned. His calloused hand gripped her smooth one and Catherine wanted to hold onto him forever. If nothing else, he needed to escape. She had plasmids, but he only had a revolver, making her fighting chances much better.

"Frank," she softly commanded, and she tugged on his hand. He paused, and she took the opportunity to pull him toward the wall. There was a small space behind several large pipes that afforded a hiding place for one person. She pushed him into it and then crammed her body against his in a forceful kiss.

"What the hell are you doing?" Fontaine angrily demanded.

"Get to the docks," she said. The resolve that Fontaine saw in her eyes was unusually hardened and revealed a strong willpower that he hadn't often seen in Catherine. His hand grabbed her waist and pulled her closer.

"We don't have time for this," he growled. She kissed him again, and he didn't like where he thought that this was going. "Cat?"

"I love you, and I'm sorry." A purple cloud enveloped his face, and he tried to fight the drowsy sensation that was overtaking his system.

"Cat!" Catherine watched his eyes close and grabbed his falling body. It might be the last time that she felt his weight against her or buried her nose in his smoky clothing, so she lingered before laying his body down behind the piping. She didn't want to let go…She ran a hand over his peaceful features and planted a last, soft kiss against his lips. Hopefully she'd see him again. He was the only thing that mattered to her anymore as she laid his jacket over his upper body and stepped back into the corridor.

"Frank, run!" she loudly yelled. "They're coming!"

"Boss, this way!" one of her pursuers shouted.

"Look, there's that woman!" Catherine gave them a good, long look at her before she used Iron Hand to smash one of the nearby pipes. Hot steam exploded into the corridor, creating a white cloud that hid her from view as she ran. More importantly, it completely hid Fontaine's sleeping form. None of Sullivan's men noticed the brown pair of shoes peaking out from behind the pipes as they madly chased after Catherine. She ran for her life and took the pathway leading to Venus Suites. For once, she felt like she was doing something important and of her own choosing.

*********

_"What a night," Fontaine sighed as he stepped into the bedroom. _

_"Frank!" Arms were encircling his neck as Catherine pressed her teary face into his shirt. "Peirce said that there was an explosion at the docks. I was so worried." He loved the way that the green of her eyes seemed to lighten into a shining, soft emerald color when she cried. He brushed the tears away dismissively. _

_"It takes more than a homemade bomb to kill me, doll." He examined the black rings beneath her eyes. "You didn't sleep," he guessed._

_"I couldn't. I waited all night for you to come back." She gripped his body and Fontaine sunk his nose into her blond hair. Sometimes she nearly gave herself a heart attack with worry—worry for his safety. _

_"I'm going to crash on the bed for a while," he said. "Care to join me?" She smiled but didn't release her hold on him. "Oh, come on, Cat. I'm alive." _

_"I know." _

Fontaine's eyes fluttered open and he groaned irritably. Something soft rubbed against his face and he pulled the jacket away to reveal a metal jumble of piping obscured by hot steam. Where was he? He groggily sat up and found that his revolver was resting on his chest. The last thing that he could remember was being kissed. He frantically looked around. Where was Catherine? What had happened with Sullivan? Shit.

Fontaine hurriedly stood and carefully stepped free from the steam. He couldn't believe it. Catherine had hidden him and let Sullivan chase her. They'd probably have been trapped in a nasty situation otherwise, but to risk her life like that…She wouldn't have gone to the docks, because Sullivan would be forced to retrace his steps and likely run into Fontaine. He shook his head in wonderment. Catherine would be on her own, and without any protection, if she'd done what he thought she had. The idea bothered Fontaine. The question of her survival bothered him. Worry was an unfamiliar feeling, but it was affecting him now. He had to get to the docks, find some men, and get to her before Sullivan did.

*********

"No more running, baby," Sullivan stated. Catherine was tied to a chair in an abandoned apartment, and struggling to see out of her swollen eyes. Dark bruises peppered her body and left her sore and raggedly breathing. She'd never been beaten like this before, and her body shook from the pain. "What is Fontaine planning?" Sullivan asked. Catherine's response was her labored breathing. "Alright, look, let's start with something easy, Miss Weathers."

"My name's Catherine Fontaine," she said. "And Frank's going to kill you for this." Sullivan seemed stunned, but then he barked a bitter laugh.

"Fontaine's going to avenge you? That's a funny one, Mrs. Fontaine. That self-serving bastard's going to leave you to rot."

"Maybe…" But her comment was too soft for Sullivan to hear.

"What's Fontaine planning?" Sullivan repeated.

"You'll have to kill me, because I'm not talking."

"What the hell is it with this guy?" Sullivan angrily complained. "What's he do that can scare so many people into silence? I know he's a scary son of a bitch…"

"I'm not scared," Catherine coldly stated, and she lifted her battered face to glare at her interrogator. "For the first time, I'm not scared."

"Then why the hell are you doing this? For him? For a heartless man who's leaving you to us? You're crazy, lady."

"No," she sadly sighed. "But this matters to me. I don't expect you to understand, but I'll die before I talk." She heard him opening a switchblade.

"I don't want to do this," he said, sounding detached and regretful. Regret. That was a tone that Catherine was all too familiar with. She closed her eyes and imagined the ring that Fontaine had bought her as the knife touched her shoulder. The tears fell in gushes as she pictured him slipping it onto her finger and kissing her. She'd never get the chance to see that day, but at least she'd die knowing that it would have happened.

The pain radiating across her skin made her scream, but she barely heard herself. Some Eve right now would have been nice. She opened her eyes and saw red on her clothing, saw Sullivan's weary, self-loathing face. Sweat ran into her eyes and worsened her crying. Who was going to look after Fontaine when she was gone? She'd never seen anyone else show even an ounce of care or affection toward him. Why was she worrying about that now? _Frank_, she mentally sighed.

"Ah, hell!" Sullivan yelled. "Get me my gun. She's not going to talk."

"But you've barely started," someone commented. "Ryan…"

"Fuck Ryan!" Sullivan hollered. "Get me the gun. You want to come over here and give it a try? I'm not doing this." Catherine was only vaguely aware of their words as she neared passing out. The pain was too much, as were the emotions crowding her head. _Hey, doll, let's grab some food_. She smiled as the world began going black. _Maybe we'll get back to the surface some day_. A strange, warm sensation began spreading throughout her body. _Take care of yourself, Frank_. She saw his face smirking at her, and she smiled back. He was so handsome, and she tried to tell him so, but her mouth wasn't working properly. A soft hand touched her face, stroking her long hair. She could smell his cigarettes.

_"You know I love it when you touch me like that," she whispered. The sheets ruffled and he pulled her closer._

_"Yeah. How about this?" A hand trailed down her thigh._

_"Stop it, Frank!" she laughed. She kissed him. "I love you." He didn't respond. He never did, but it didn't matter. Sometimes she saw the answer in his eyes. "I love you." _


	12. Chapter 12: What was Lost

Chapter 12: What was Lost

1960

Fontaine watched the monitors as Jack Ryan, disguised as a Big Daddy, navigated the hallways and rooms toward his location. He'd never thought that the kid would make it this far. Hell, he should have died after assassinating Ryan. That's how he and Suchong had designed the kid, but fucking Tenenbaum had to get involved and save the sap's ass. No matter. Fontaine had all the Adam in Rapture, and for the first time, he was shooting plasmids, Eve, and Adam into his system. No wonder Catherine had craved this stuff. Damn. Talk about taking a power trip.

_Catherine_.

Fontaine slipped another needle into his skin and emptied the syringe. What had he said to the kid? That's right: "Maybe I'll get myself a real family some day. It plays well with the saps." A family. Fontaine shook his head. The comment had immediately brought Catherine to mind. He could imagine her bright smile and bubbling laughter, the way her dresses swirled around her hips as she spun in a dance, the times she fetched him cigarettes and bought him presents. He could feel her touching him in that gentle, seeking manner of hers; see her nibbling her bottom lip in concern. If she could see the mess that he'd gotten himself into now, she'd be horrified.

_Fuck_, he mentally cursed. It had been over two years, and he couldn't forget her. When he'd found her body, her clothing had been drenched in blood, but her face had been clean, and she'd looked relaxed. He later found out that she hadn't squealed, and damn did he miss her. He hated to admit it, but he missed everything about her. Now he hadn't even seen a woman in a year, at least not a sane one. He'd give anything to hold his Cat again, even just to hear her voice.

Where were these thoughts coming from? Maybe the Adam was playing with his mind. He couldn't be sure, but he wanted more. He walked toward the machine at the room's center and began strapping himself into the equipment. He'd at least gain Rapture once Jack was done for, but why didn't he feel as excited about that prospect anymore? It had been what he'd worked toward since the discovery of Adam, and he was about to finally accomplish what every one of his cons had been building toward.

_Catherine_.

Fontaine again felt that unfamiliar twang of remorse that had affected him when he found her. His fists clenched. It was a good thing that Sullivan had committed suicide, because Fontaine would have done unspeakable things to that man. He had thought the pain of losing her would dwindle over time, but it hadn't. It had built as the cost of fighting for Rapture mounted. Now he had nothing.

The machine began pumping Adam into his body in massive quantities, and it made him feel invincible. Yes. Damn this was good stuff.

Family. Yeah, having a family one day would be nice. He'd been sleeping alone for so long, and a warm body next to his would be welcomed. _But the woman won't be Catherine_. Fontaine mentally slapped himself. Why was this idea of family overtaking his mind as Jack drew closer? He had always focused on his goals to banish Catherine's ghost, but he was constantly reminded of her. He said that he didn't care. He had convinced himself that she was nothing but a passing tool, but it was a lie. Right now he could swear that he felt her presence nearby. Someone was coming up the elevator.

_Catherine?_

No, it was that kid, and he looked ready to kill.

Shit, maybe Adam _was_ playing with his mind. He released himself from the machine and charged Jack. The fight raged and Fontaine was amazed by the kid's ability to survive his attacks. It was a long struggle before he finally knocked his enemy over. It had been a long time since he's seen another normal person. Rapture had been dead and devoid of human connections for an entire year, since the new years civil war sparked.

Fontaine began telling the kid about how betrayed he felt, about how Jack was the closest thing that he'd ever had to a family—well, since Catherine had been taken from him, that is. His victory felt hollow as he lifted a fist to finish Jack, but did he want to do it? He'd be alone except for the crazy splicers if he did this. Oh hell, he'd bring more people and rebuild the city as its ruler.

When the little sisters came and began stabbing him, draining his Adam, Fontaine felt numbness spread across his body. He'd survived this long to die on the verge of fulfillment? He could have laughed. Children were murdering Frank Fontaine, the most cunning man in all of Rapture, and he'd even funded their creation. Life had a strange way of dealing out paybacks. He would know.

As his eyes closed, he was sure that someone softly ran a hand over his bald head.

_Frank._

"Catherine?" He wanted to tell her how much he'd missed her—about how life had taken a dark spiral since her departure, but that wasn't his style. He relaxed and let his struggling heart rest as her hand continued to caress his weakening body. He looked up and saw her blond hair and smiling features, and suddenly Rapture didn't matter anymore. Right now, all he wanted was to smile and feel someone extend warmth to him for the first time since she'd left him. "It's good to see you again, doll," he managed to whisper. Hell, it really, really was. _Catherine. My Cat. I've got something for you. _He wasn't going to let her go a second time.

**********

The little sister brushed blond hair out of her face, and gently stretched out a hand to touch Fontaine's closed fist. He was dead, but she was still scared of him.

"It's alright," Jack told her. "He's not coming back." The little sister nodded and watched as Jack loosened Fontaine's dead fingers. Both were surprised by what fell from the corpse's grasp. It was a beautiful diamond ring, the likes of which neither had ever seen. Jack gingerly lifted the engagement ring and examined it. Of all the mysteries that he had encountered in Rapture, this was the most puzzling of them all, but he remembered the photographs of a beautiful woman that he'd seen in Fontaine's apartment. He later asked Tenenbaum about it, and she seemed more stunned about the ring and photo than he did, but she never told him why. She simply told him to keep the ring and remember that lights shined even in the darkest of nights.

The End


End file.
